Born in Pain: The 25th Hunger Games
by Elim9
Summary: "The future is all around us, waiting in moments of transition, to be born in moments of revelation. No one knows the shape of that future, or where it will take us. We know only that it is always born in pain."
1. Moments of Transition

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Welcome, readers both new and old, to my latest SYOT. Submissions are still open; information and the tribute form are on my profile.

This story follows my other two – _Doomed to Die _and _Edge of Chaos _– but should still make perfect sense if you haven't read them. If you have, expect some familiar faces, as well as some new ones.

So, without further adieu, the beginning of the story...

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><p><strong>Born in Pain<br>The 25th Hunger Games**

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><p><em><em>This year, as a reminder to the rebels that the horrors of war show no partiality or distinction, the names of all eligible tributes will be placed in a single reaping bowl, and three tributes will be selected. There will be no volunteers.<em>_

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><p><strong>Prologue, Part I<br>****Moments of Transition**

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><p><strong>Helius Florum<br>****Head Gamemaker**

"Why three, Florum?"

Helius looked up, surprised, wondering how long President Hyde had been standing there. Helius grinned. "Something wrong with three, Mr. President?"

Hyde shook his head. "Not 'wrong,' exactly. Just a bit … anticlimactic. This is the first Quarter Quell. We could double the number of tributes. Triple it, if that's what you want. But, instead, you asked for three from each district. Why?"

Helius shrugged. "I've always liked the number three. It's built into our lives, you know. Any life – at any moment – can be divided into three parts: the past, the present, and the future. What was, what is, and what will be. It's the same way with stories. Any good story has three parts. The beginning of the story. The middle of the story." He smiled a little. "And the end of the story."

Hyde nodded his understanding. "You mean to go through with it, then – your resignation?"

Helius nodded. "I think it's time."

"The people won't be happy."

"Good."

"Pardon?"

"It's good to leave while that's still the case. Much better than leaving the way my predecessor left."

Hyde nodded. "You've got a point, I suppose."

"I usually do. Besides, twenty-five years is quite enough for anyone – and twenty-one of them as Head Gamemaker. It's been a good run. I've enjoyed it. But … it's time. Time to pass the reins to someone younger. Someone more ambitious."

"The same thought had occurred to me."

Helius nodded. "So you mean to go through with it, too."

"Not right away. I'll wait a few weeks after the Games. After the festivities have died down. But, yes. It's time for someone else to take the reins. Twenty-five years since the rebellion. Twenty-five years of peace. I'd say I've earned my retirement."

Helius poured them each a glass of wine. "I'll drink to that."

And they did.

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><p>"<em>The future is all around us, waiting in moments of transition, to be born in moments of revelation."<em>


	2. District One: Unfair

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Just a couple of "housekeeping" notes.

Firstly, since several people have asked, yes, there is a blog. The link to it is on my profile. Tributes will be posted on the blog as they're introduced in-story. (I do this to avoid split-second judgments of the tributes based on a picture and a few words on a blog, something I'm more than guilty of myself.)

Second, make sure to keep an eye out for allies as we go through the reapings. Twelve extra tributes means more potential allies, so let me know if you see a good match. Submitters of Careers, this applies to you, as well. We've got only one or two who could remotely be considered proper Careers, so there's no rule that says tributes from 1, 2, and 4 _must_ end up in an alliance together.

Lastly, thank you to _torystory93_, _Rosemarie Benson_, and _Frank.2.0 _for Elaine, Henri, and Daedem, respectively.

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><p><strong>District One Reaping<br>****Unfair**

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><p><strong>Scarlet LaFleur, 18<br>****Victor of the 23****rd**** Hunger Games**

Now she was glad she hadn't waited.

Scarlet glanced over at Jade and Stellar, smirking knowingly. _Wait a few years, _they'd said. _You're young and impatient_, they'd said. _Wouldn't winning a Quarter Quell be better? _And, once or twice, she'd wondered if maybe they had been right. Maybe a Quarter Quell would have been more exciting. But now she was glad she hadn't listened.

Because then she may have lost her chance entirely.

It was all up to chance this year. No volunteers. Jade and Stellar were seated next to each other, holding hands, trying to make the best of it. But Scarlet knew they were disappointed. And the students they had selected this year – Autumn and Kane – would be even more upset in the likely event that they weren't chosen. They were both eighteen. Both had trained most of their lives for this. In a matter of moments, their chance could be gone. And they had no say in the matter.

Scarlet drummed her fingers impatiently. She didn't like looking at the nervous faces in the crowd – nervous for the first time in years. The reaping in District One was usually just a formality. The tributes were selected by Jade and Stellar weeks before the reaping. Everyone already knew who would volunteer.

But not this year. This year, the decision rested with Aurora DeLaine, their escort, who had an odd smile on her face as she approached the single reaping bowl. Maybe she was excited, knowing that, this year, it finally mattered which name she drew out of the bowl. And, Scarlet had to admit, there was something exciting, something tantalizing, about the uncertainty of it all, especially since it wasn't _her_ chance that was at stake.

Aurora reached into the bowl and drew a name. "Molly Saunders!"

Immediately, the sound of sobbing filled the square, draining the excitement Scarlet had felt only a moment before. The sobbing was coming from the eighteen-year-old section, where the crowd had parted around a girl in a green tunic, dark purple skirt, and a green head scarf. Scarlet watched in disbelief as the girl – no younger than her – collapsed on the ground, weeping like a child as the Peacekeepers hauled her to her feet and dragged her to the stage.

Scarlet glanced over at her fellow mentors. Jade and Stellar watched, blank-faced, trying to appear unmoved by the display. Felix glanced away, uncomfortable, as the girl continued to weep, falling to her knees as soon as the Peacekeepers released her. Her long black hair was now a mess, her dark brown eyes red with tears by the time she dared to look up, pleading, begging for someone to take her place.

If only they could.

Somewhere in the crowd, Scarlet knew, were the two students Jade and Stellar had chosen. Two teenagers who would have given anything to be in this girl's place. But there were only two chances left…

"Daedem Luthra!"

The eighteen-year-old section parted again, this time for a tall, sturdy boy in a dark red suit. He was dark-skinned and dark-haired, his crooked nose and square jawline giving him a much more serious look than his district partner. But just as Scarlet had decided that he was a much better contender, the boy began shouting. Screaming that it wasn't fair, that he hadn't done anything. The Peacekeepers grabbed him, dragging him to the stage, but he was still protesting – his deep brown eyes wide with alarm – demanding to know what he had done to deserve this. "What did _I_ do?" he yelled as the Peacekeepers deposited him onstage next to the girl.

The boy scrambled to his feet immediately, but had more sense than to fight back. So he simply stood there, arms crossed, glaring at each of the victors in turn before turning back to face the crowd as Aurora drew one more name. "Elaine Willis!"

The fourteen-year-old section parted around a small girl in a white lace dress. But no sooner had they cleared a path to the stage than the girl sprinted in the opposite direction, through the crowd, past the rest of her age group. She had almost made it through the twelve-year-old section before a younger Peacekeeper caught her in his arms, carrying her to the stage. Scarlet thought for a moment that he whispered something in her ear before setting her next to the two older teenagers. The girl nodded a little, tears in her dark blue eyes, her wavy brown hair mussed from the struggle.

No one seemed to know what to do next. Usually there were handshakes. Cheering. Shouts of victory uttered before the tributes had even entered the arena, bets taken on which of them would come home with the victor's crown.

But not this year. This year, the Peacekeepers led the tributes away without another word, leaving the crowd to disperse quietly. Once offstage, the four victors gathered together in a circle.

Jade spoke first, shaking his head. "We've spoiled them. They've forgotten how to handle a real reaping."

Scarlet nodded. Since Jade's victory, nearly all of District One's tributes had been volunteers. And since the founding of Jade and Stellar's Career academy, they had been better trained, well-prepared, and, in recent years, hand-picked by the Florens to volunteer for the Games. Before today, these three had probably never even considered the possibility that they might end up in the Games. They had been safe.

Until now.

"Not too late to change your mind, Felix," Stellar teased.

Felix shook his head. "Oh, no. You three go ahead. I've had my fill."

Jade clapped him on the back. "Fair enough. Take good care of Jasper and Thea."

Felix nodded and made his way through the crowd to Jade and Stellar's children, who greeted him with warm cries of "Uncle Felix!" Scarlet smiled a little. In an odd way, they _were_ all family – Jade and Stellar, little Jasper and Thea, "Uncle" Felix … and her. The wayward daughter? The crazy cousin?

"So, Scarlet, you get first pick – any preference?"

Jade's question yanked her back to the moment. Down to business. That was the unofficial family rule: newer mentors got to pick their tributes first. It was supposed to make it easier, but, last year, she had ended up working closely with Jade, anyway. "I'll take the boy."

Jade nodded. "I thought you might. He's got a temper."

Scarlet smirked. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Not if you can control it. You did a fair job of controlling your own, or else you wouldn't be here; you'll do fine. Stellar?"

"I'll take the younger girl."

Jade nodded. "Which leaves me with the crying one. Thanks."

Stellar shrugged. "Well, of the three of us, you _are_ the only one who's mentored a non-trained tribute."

"Seventeen years ago."

"More than either of us can say. You're the most experienced – best equipped to handle a tribute who won't stop crying."

"Flatterer."

"Flirt."

They kissed.

Scarlet rolled her eyes, but there was a part of her that envied them. Their relationship, their normal lives, their children. And Felix – he and his wife, Jasmine, were expecting their first child. They had moved on.

But she hadn't. She couldn't. Because she had won the Hunger Games … and it still wasn't enough. Felix – he was happy with what he had done. Fulfilled. Jade and Stellar had the academy to keep them busy, and two young children. Scarlet didn't have the patience to be an instructor; after a few days and several battered would-be-tributes, she and Jade had agreed that teaching at the academy simply wasn't a good fit for her. Stellar had assured her that she would find something else.

But she still hadn't. What was she _supposed _to do? She had won the Hunger Games in record time – four days, the shortest Games on record after Vester's. She had killed eight tributes, a total only Ivy and Mortimer had surpassed. So why did she still feel second-best? Why couldn't she do what Felix had done – hang up his sword, be happy with what he had, and leave the Games behind? After the thrill of the Games, a normal life – even the life that Jade and Stellar had – seemed dull in comparison.

What was she supposed to do now?

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><p><strong>Elaine Willis, 14<strong>

This wasn't what she'd had in mind.

Elaine buried her face in her mother's shirt. Only a few days ago, she had been complaining that they never let her _do_ anything. While her brother Terence was in training to be a Peacekeeper, she was expected to be a proper lady. To say _please_ and _thank you_ and _excuse me_, to keep up with the latest fashions, to always look neat and tidy and fancy, like the daughter of a Head Peacekeeper should.

She'd told them she didn't want to spend the rest of her life in District One. She wanted to explore. She wanted an adventure. She wanted to _do_ something with her life.

This wasn't what she'd meant.

She'd never even thought about the Games. Not really. She wasn't big enough or strong enough to train, and her parents would never have let her, anyway – not even as a precaution, just in case she was reaped. There was always someone who would volunteer. The reaping itself was a bit of a joke.

Until now.

"Elaine, I—" Terrence started, but Elaine shot him a dirty look. She hadn't really expected to be able to get away. Some part of her had known better. But she hadn't thought _he_ would be the one to catch her.

He had only been doing his job, of course. They had both reacted out of instinct. Her instincts had told her to run. His had told him to follow orders. She knew she shouldn't be upset. If he hadn't caught her, one of the others would have. Maybe even her father. But, still, she couldn't shake the feeling that maybe – _maybe _– she could have made it. Maybe she could have gotten away.

But then what? Where would she have gone? She couldn't have run forever. Eventually, they would have caught her. Maybe it was better to just go quietly.

Elaine held her mother even tighter. She wasn't ready. She wasn't ready to leave all of this behind. All the _please_s and _thank you_s she'd been taught wouldn't help her in the arena. Now that she had gotten what she had thought she'd wanted – a little excitement – she would give anything to have her life back. To live in peace with her family and friends.

But, in order to do that, she would have to make it back from the Games. She would have to fight. She would have to kill. And, now that it came to it, she wasn't sure she could. But she didn't have a choice anymore.

What was she supposed to do now?

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><p><strong>Molly "Henri" Saunders, 18<strong>

This wasn't supposed to happen to her.

Henri and Lucy held each other close. This wasn't supposed to happen. Not here. Not in District One. Henri hated the Career system as much as she hated everything about the Games, but at least she had always been safe. She'd never had to worry about being reaped. So she had been free to hate the Games, safe in the knowledge that she would never have anything to do with them.

Until now.

"I can't do it," she whispered, holding her best friend even tighter. "I can't be one of them." Even the thought of it made her sick – the thought of killing, of taking a life. She had spent her whole life hating the Careers. Hating the victors. Hating the Games and everyone in them. How could she become one of them now?

"Yes, you can," Lucy whispered back. "You have to. You have to at least _try_. I don't know what I would do if…" She trailed off. "If I could trade places with you, I—"

"I know," Henri nodded. Lucy had trained a little – more for fun than for anything else. She had never really planned on volunteering, had never really been good enough. It was a hobby. But it would still have given her a better chance.

But if Lucy had been able to take her place, there would have been no need for it. Because that would mean that someone else could, too. Someone who _wanted_ to volunteer. Someone who _wanted_ to go into the Games. Someone who _wanted _to kill.

Henri had never imagined she would find herself _wishing_ people could volunteer.

"Promise me you'll try," Lucy pleaded. "That you won't just give up. You have to _try _to come home."

Henri nodded. "I promise." And she meant it. Because, somehow, thinking about the Careers, _I can't_ had become _I won't._ Maybe she _could_ kill. Maybe she _could_ become a monster. But she wouldn't. She would try to win, but not like them. Not by killing. She would find another way.

Henri squeezed her eyes shut tight. Part of her knew she was grasping at straws, but what else was she supposed to do? She wasn't a killer. She wasn't a fighter. But she was going into the Games, anyway – where fighting and killing were what kept tributes alive a little longer.

What was she supposed to do now?

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><p><strong>Daedem Luthra, 18<strong>

Part of him hadn't expected Sansa to come.

Daedem watched his sister awkwardly. They had barely spoken since their mother's death. They had never been very close, and, in the last year, they had simply gone their separate ways. Sansa had moved in with her boyfriend, and Daedem lived alone. Maybe it wasn't an ideal situation, but it had suited them well.

Until now.

"You made quite a scene at the reaping," Sansa said at last, as if she couldn't think of anything else to say.

Daedem scoffed. He was probably going to his death, and that was all she could think of? That he might have embarrassed himself by making a scene? "We all did," he pointed out. "At least I didn't try to run away."

"Or burst into tears," Sansa added with a hint of a smile. "So the audience will probably like you better than those two."

Daedem nodded. That was his sister – already thinking about what the audience would want to see. He hadn't thought about it that way. He'd simply panicked. Reacted. He hadn't cared what the audience would think.

And he still didn't. Chances were, he didn't have much time left. Why should he waste it worrying about what some idiots in the Capitol thought of him? If they couldn't wrap their minds around the idea that someone might actually be _upset_ about the possibility of dying, that was their problem – not his.

He had enough problems of his own.

Soon, Sansa was gone, leaving him alone with his thoughts. No one else came. Not that he was expecting anyone. There were people he knew, of course – people around school, people around the district. But no one who would really notice that he was missing. No one who would care if he never came back.

But _he_ would care. Maybe he didn't have anyone else to fight for, but why did that matter? In the end, no one in the arena was fighting for their friends, for their family, for their district. They were fighting for their lives. And so would he.

Daedem leaned back in his chair, mind reeling at the thought. Fighting. Killing. He'd never imagined that he could be the one sitting here. Children in the other districts – they knew there was a chance. But he had never even considered the idea. The thought of fighting, of dying, of killing – that had never even crossed his mind.

What was he supposed to do now?

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><p>"<em>I used to think it was awful that life was so unfair. Then I thought, wouldn't it be much worse if life <em>were _fair, and all the terrible things that happen to us come because we actually _deserve_ them? So now I take great comfort in the general hostility and unfairness of the universe."_


	3. District Two: Justified

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Since several people have mentioned it ... Yes, I'm aware that, in canon, Peacekeepers can't have children. I'm choosing to ignore that. I also chose to ignore the fact that, in canon, Finnick is the youngest Victor, so Hazel shouldn't have won at twelve. I also chose not to include Woof as a District Eight victor, which should probably have happened by now. I also chose to make Mags' Games the 8th, even though that puts her at 82, not 80, during the 75th Games. Finally, most blatantly, I chose to change the Quarter Quell twist.

As you've probably noticed, I'm not going to be shy about bending canon if it serves the story. The fact that Elaine's father is a Peacekeeper isn't the first instance, and it won't be the last. Just figured I should put that out there as fair warning.

Anyway, on to District Two. Thank you to _blurry cornrow_, _SomeDays_, and _Munamana_ for Simone, Dewan, and Adrian, respectively.

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><p><strong>District Two Reaping<br>****Justified**

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><p><strong>Talitha Cadence, 28<br>****Victor of the 12****th**** Hunger Games**

Vester was holding up surprisingly well.

Talitha slipped a hand into her mentor's, giving a gentle squeeze and forcing a smile, for his sake. The smile he returned was weary, heavy, and just as forced. But at least he was here. And he was sober.

Talitha hadn't actually seen him drunk since Mortimer's victory four years ago, but she suspected he drank during the Games, while she and Mortimer were away. Not that she blamed him; the Games sometimes made _her_ want to drink herself into a stupor, as well. But she had a job to do. And, this year, so did he.

The Quell announcement had come only two days ago, giving the three of them little time to take in the news. Vester had muttered something about them wanting him there for "one last moment in the spotlight" and resigned himself to one last year of mentoring, something he had sworn off four years ago, leaving Talitha and Mortimer as the regular mentors. And Talitha had never begrudged him that. He'd served as a mentor for twenty years – eleven of them alone. He'd earned his retirement.

But the Capitol, apparently, just couldn't leave him in peace.

He was still taking the news better than Mortimer, however. District Two's first Career victor was glaring at the cameras, furious that his hand-picked volunteers would never get their chance. "This is what we get for being too strong," he had reasoned when he'd first heard the news. "Careers have won three out of the last four Games – and the other was a Career ally for a while. So they're trying to take it out on us."

Talitha hadn't said anything. But that didn't strike her as the right explanation. After all, next year would be back to normal – and the year after that, and the year after that. If the Capitol was really upset with the Careers' winning streak, they could outlaw the academies, or make the no-volunteering rule a permanent change.

No, this wasn't a punishment. It was a reminder. A reminder that even here – even in the Career districts – no one was ever truly safe.

Because that was the only good thing about the Career system, in the end. The only bright side to the fact that hundreds of the district's children were now being trained to brutally murder other teenagers. It meant that the rest of them were safe. That anyone who didn't want to risk their lives in the Games could simply sit back and let someone else take their place.

Was it worth the price? Worth brainwashing hundreds of children into believing that killing was simply another sport, another trophy to win? Was it worth turning them into monsters, so that others could live in peace?

She knew Vester's answer: no. He'd made that quite clear when Mortimer had asked him to serve as an instructor at the academy. Several of Vester's fellow war veterans had joined Mortimer, eager to share their skills, but Vester held firm. Under no circumstances would he condone training children to kill and to die merely for sport and entertainment.

But, despite his disapproval – and despite her silence – the Career movement had only grown. Hundreds of teenagers were eager to volunteer. The competition for this year's spots, she knew, had been fierce.

And, ultimately, futile.

Mortimer was still glaring as their escort, Boris Dexeter, approached the reaping bowl. All of his hard work this past year – all for nothing, unless the odds were, in fact, in his favor…

"Dewan Rutledge!"

The fifteen-year-old section parted around a boy in a dark grey button-down shirt and black dress pants. He was about average in height and build, with a few muscles and a surprising amount of confidence as he put on his best smile and ran up to the stage, his ice blue eyes giving off an impression of eagerness. Whether he was actually excited or simply copying District Two's tributes in recent years, Talitha wasn't sure.

She glanced over at Mortimer, hoping for some hint as to whether or not this was one of his students, but his expression was unreadable. The boy's face, however, seemed to be an open book as he turned his confident smile towards the audience, waiting for the names of his district partners.

"Adrian Mors!"

The eighteen-year-old section parted for a boy in a dark blue worker's uniform. He was tall, brown-haired, and muscular, with broad shoulders and an athletic build, but a snort from Mortimer's direction told her this wasn't one of his students. The boy, as well, seemed to be almost holding back a chuckle as he took the stage, his bright hazel eyes fixed defiantly on Mortimer as he took his place next to the other boy.

But when he turned towards the audience, the hint of a smile faded, as if the reality of the situation had just dawned on him. Emotions flickered on his face – anger, fear, shock – before confidence and determination settled in once more, and he joined the other boy in watching the escort, waiting for the third name.

"Simone Lorance!"

The eighteen-year-old section parted once more, this time for a girl in a grey, sleeveless dress, black tights, and black shoes. For a moment, she simply stood there, shocked. Motionless. Staring, wide-eyed, muttering something under her breath. Talitha squeezed Vester's hand a little tighter. She knew the feeling. She'd been there herself – terrified, in denial, hoping that if she stood still long enough, they would call some other name. Any other name.

But, at last, the girl began to move, stepping slowly out of her section and towards the stage. Trying to look calm. Trying to appear as confident as her district partners. She was about as short as the younger boy, pale and slender, with long, dark blonde hair and blue eyes. The younger boy smiled at her, holding out his hand. The girl hesitated for a moment, but then shook it. Then the two boys shook hands, and, lastly, the two eighteen-year-olds.

Talitha squeezed Vester's hand as the three tributes were led away. Once the crowd was gone, she turned to Mortimer. "What was that all about? Did you know the boy?"

Mortimer shrugged. "Both of the boys, actually. They were at the academy – but not very long."

"What happened?"

"They decided they wanted to live," Vester muttered.

Mortimer decided to ignore that. "Dewan was pretty good when he applied himself – but he just didn't want to, after a while. It was a fad – a popular one – and he was never really that interested."

Talitha nodded. "And Adrian…"

Mortimer shrugged. "Flunked out."

That finally warranted a chuckle from Vester. "What was the matter? Got queasy when he realized that he could actually be killing a _person_ instead of fighting your dummies?"

Mortimer shook his head. "Couldn't take orders. Training requires discipline – and he didn't have any. It was my first year, and we simply didn't have the resources to deal with him when there were other willing candidates who _were _willing to do what they were told."

Vester nodded. "I suppose he wouldn't want to work with you, then."

Mortimer shook his head. "Probably not. I'll take Dewan."

"I'll take the girl, then," Vester offered.

Mortimer cocked an eyebrow, but Talitha understood. Even if he'd been booted out, Adrian had wanted to train for the Games. And Vester didn't want any part of that. "I'll take Adrian, then," she nodded as Mortimer headed off. She turned to Vester. "Are you all right?"

Vester nodded weakly. "I just … never thought I'd be doing this again."

Talitha nodded. "It's just one more. Then you're done with the Games – for good."

Vester sighed. "One more. One last moment in the spotlight. One last bow. But you know better than that, Talitha. We all do." He shook his head.

"No one is ever done with the Games."

* * *

><p><strong>Dewan Rutledge, 15<strong>

He'd never wanted to kill anyone.

Dewan tried not to look at his parents. It had been his father's suggestion that he start training, and Dewan had always suspected that he had been disappointed when he'd decided to quit. But it just hadn't been for him. Sure, he could throw a knife at a target about as well as the others, but, after a while, it had stopped being fun. It had stopped being exciting. He just didn't have the drive that some of the others had. He didn't want to kill.

And, if he was being honest, he didn't want to die, either.

The kids at the training center didn't really seem to understand that – the idea that they might die. They were all so confident, so sure that they would win. Even when two of them were chosen to volunteer, it didn't seem to occur to them that at least _one_ of them would die. At least _one_ of them would have to, in order for the other to come home. He had never understood how they could just ignore that.

But now he would have to pretend to be one of them.

Dewan took a deep breath. He could do it. He'd spent enough time among the Careers. He could imitate their attitude, their confidence – even if he didn't really feel it. But that would only get him so far. Attitude wasn't everything. Sooner or later, he had to have the skills to back it up.

But did he?

Dewan shook the thought from his head. It wasn't as if anyone else this year would have training, either. No volunteers meant the other tributes from One, Two, and Four would probably be just like him – maybe a little training, but nowhere near the usual amount. That would give him an advantage.

Probably.

Maybe.

Dewan ruffled his little brother's hair, putting on his best confident smile. "Take care of them until I'm back, all right, Jason?"

_Until I'm back_. He was surprised by how easy it was to say the words. To play the part. Jason nodded along, hearing what he wanted to hear: that his brother would be back. Even their mother and father were nodding, trying to smile, trying to look like they believed it.

Maybe that would be enough.

* * *

><p><strong>Simone Lorance, 18<strong>

She'd never wanted to kill anyone.

Simone shook her head as her father left. She'd never even thought about the Games – not recently, at least. Ever since Mortimer's victory four years ago, volunteers were a certainty at the reaping. She'd always been safe. Safe to live her own life without having to worry about the Games.

So she hadn't trained. Hadn't even considered it, really. She had no intention of volunteering – no intention of risking her life – so why train? Why waste her life on something she wasn't really interested in?

Then again, she had never been quite sure what she _was_ interested in. Not like Leila. Her sister seemed to have her entire life mapped out for her. Leila shared – or at least pretended to share – their mother's interest in politics. When her parents had split, Leila had spent more and more time with their mother, even moving in with her when she became the mayor. Simone, on the other hand, was left with their father. The leftovers who didn't fit into the shiny world of prestige and politics.

Simone looked up as the door opened. Leila entered, followed by their mother. "This is why it's important that we have Careers," their mother fussed. "Any other year, there would have been someone to take your place."

Simone cringed. Supporting the newly founded Career Academy was part of what had finally landed her mother the position of mayor. And she had a point. Any other year, someone would have stepped in and saved Simone's life before she had a chance to realize that it was in danger.

But not this year.

Simone shook her head. Just her luck. They couldn't have called her name last year, or the year before – when it wouldn't have mattered. It just _had_ to be this year. Her last year.

After several moments of awkward silence, Leila and her mother left. Simone did nothing to stop them. She'd barely seen the two of them in the last couple years; they wouldn't notice that she was gone. Her father would move on. He'd already lost his wife and Leila. Why should he care if she left, too? Simone stared at the closed door as it finally hit her.

What did she have to come back to?

* * *

><p><strong>Adrian Mors, 18<strong>

He'd never wanted to kill anyone.

Adrian gave the wall another kick. He wasn't supposed to be here. He'd never wanted to be here – not really. Even when he'd applied to the training academy, it hadn't been because he _wanted_ to kill. He'd been looking for something better to do than spend his days working, trying to get by. The Games had seemed like a way out. Win, and all your troubles were gone. Lose and … well, all your troubles were gone, anyway.

But they'd said no. Tossed him out after only a few days. For a long time, he'd resented them for that. Envied the ones who were given an opportunity to succeed while he spent his days hauling rocks for building and his nights gambling with Lucky Jack. But he'd gotten over it. In a way, they'd stopped him from throwing his life away. Not that his life was amazing, but it was something. And it was all he had.

But now he was here, anyway. Without any training. With only his strength, only his own experience, only his own desire to survive.

Maybe that would be enough.

Maybe he didn't have much to come back to. His mother would survive. His friends would move on. They could learn to live without him.

Maybe he wasn't leaving much, but that also meant something else: he didn't have anything to lose. No friendships that would fall apart if he came back changed. No family or loved ones to distract him, to occupy his thoughts during the Games. He could focus on saving himself.

Adrian clenched his fists, trying to force his mind back a few years. To channel some of the drive he'd felt then. To win – not because he wanted to kill, not because he wanted to make his mother proud, but because he wanted something better for himself. Because he wanted to come home. Because he wanted to survive.

All his life, he'd wanted to be someone. To be more than the kid on the street. More than the young worker, more than the gambler who occasionally ended up on the wrong side of the law. There was a time when he'd wanted to make something of himself. And now that he had the chance, one thing was certain.

Win or lose, they would never forget him.

* * *

><p>"<em>There's only one truth about war: People die … We can't deny it. We can only live with it and hope the reasons for doing it are justified."<em>


	4. District Three: Remains

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **My apologies for the late update. I recently joined a 24-author collaboration and will need to get into the swing of balancing that story and this one. (There's a link to the collaboration, called _Fallen Leaves_, on my profile if you're interested.) Thank you for your patience.

Also, thank you to _ImmyRose_, _Xymena Falling_, and _IronManRidingaNimbus_ for Alasdair, Eigen, and Natasha, respectively.

* * *

><p><strong>District Three Reaping<br>****Remains**

* * *

><p><strong>Miriam Valence, 24<br>****Victor of the 15****th**** Hunger Games**

"Miriam Valence!"

Miriam's head snapped up. She had been lost in thought, but hearing her name called out snapped her back to the moment. For a second, she was fourteen again, hearing her own name at the reaping. Terrified. Trying to run. Being caught and dragged to the stage.

Miriam shook her head, gripping the arms of her chair and forcing a smile. That wasn't why they had read her name. They were reading the 'list' of victors. A list that held only one name.

Miriam swallowed hard. That wasn't the list they should be reading. She'd always thought it would be better to read a list of the tributes who _hadn't_ come home. She was here – they didn't need a reminder that she had survived. But the others, it seemed, were forgotten too quickly. There were those who remembered, of course. Their families. Their friends. But, to most of the district, they were just two more names. And then two more. And more.

But she remembered. She remembered each of their names. She repeated them every night before she went to sleep. A reminder. A reminder of why she kept trying. Why she was determined that, one day, her name wouldn't be the only one the mayor would read off at the reaping.

Because a part of them was still with her. Mayberry, her own mentor, had passed that on to her. "When we leave a place," she said, "part of it goes with us, and part of us remains." There was a part of her tributes that would always remain here, in District Three.

Just like there was a part of her that would always remain in the arena. And there was a part of those catacombs that she had brought home with her.

That was the way the Games worked. No one ever fully left the arena. And every victor carried a part of the arena with them. She had realized years ago that a victor had two choices: they either accepted that simple fact, or it drove them mad.

And, so far, she hadn't gone mad.

Quite the reverse, in fact. She had taken her victory and turned it into an opportunity. No longer having to scrape and scrounge to provide for herself, Miriam had been able to focus on what she had always wanted. She had gone back to school – the same school she had dropped out of at the age of ten in order to work in the factories. She had completed the education she had neglected for so many years. Now she was in her final year of studies, almost ready to become a teacher herself.

Because that was the sort of hero District Three needed, in the end. Winning the Games wasn't enough – not here. The victors in One – and Mortimer in Two – had dedicated themselves to training new tributes. But she was focused on a different sort of training. A training dedicated to life.

The mayor finished, and District Three's escort, Valery Creston, stepped up to the microphone. No show. No fuss. She snatched the first slip her fingers found, unfolded the paper, and read the name. "Natasha Kovaćić!"

Kovaćić. She knew the name. The whole district did. One of the largest family names outside the Capitol itself. Perhaps _the_ largest. There were a few murmurs from the crowd. It had been a few years since a Kovaćić name was chosen, but they all remembered. In twenty-four years, the Kovaćić family had lost fourteen tributes. She had mentored five of them. Elena, Artem, Vitali, Lidya, Katya. And, of course, there was her own district partner, Andrei Kovaćić.

Response among the Kovaćić family was mixed. Some were proud of their family's long legacy in the Games. In fact, a few of them – including Andrei – had been volunteers, eager to prove themselves stronger and heartier than their predecessors. The more reasonable ones – in Miriam's opinion – detested the Games as much as anyone else. A few even suspected a conspiracy to wipe out the Kovaćić family.

Which was probably an overreaction. If one excluded the four volunteers and only included the tributes who had been reaped, the Kovaćić children accounted for ten of the district's forty-eight tributes. Roughly one-fifth. No one had ever done a count, but Miriam wouldn't have been surprised if the Kovaćić family – immediate and extended – made up a fifth of the district's population.

It was just a matter of numbers.

But the numbers had done nothing to protect the girl who now emerged from the sixteen-year-old section, wearing dark jeans and a green hooded sweater. She held her head high, but Miriam could tell immediately that she wasn't from one of the train-for-the-Games branches of the family. The girl looked more like a model than a tribute: fiery red hair, large chestnut eyes, and curves like Miriam had once dreamed of having.

Once.

But that was a long time ago. That was the factory girl who dreamed of having a well-fed, healthy body rather than the skinny, meager form that had somehow taken her through the Games. She was no longer that little girl. She no longer felt the same petty envy when she saw girls like Natasha.

But she couldn't deny that a figure like that would help the girl win sponsors.

The girl was doing her best to smile, and even managed to answer a few of Valery's questions. Yes, _that_ Kovaćić family. No, none of the previous tributes had been her brothers or sisters, but a few had been cousins. The rest were distant relatives she hadn't really known. Of course she was excited to carry on her family's legacy.

Nonsense if ever Miriam had heard it – this girl wasn't eager for anything of the sort – but the Capitol would eat it up.

At last, Valery tore herself away from the tribute who would surely be her favorite and made her way back to the reaping bowl. Maybe hoping for a relative of the girl's to spice things up a bit. It had happened once – back in the Fifth Games. A Kovaćić brother and sister had been reaped together. Miriam leaned forward, watching Valery intently, hoping it wouldn't happen again.

"Eigen Vallant!"

The fourteen-year-old section parted for a rather burly boy in a plain white shirt and brown trousers. He was taller than most of the others in his section, with a mop of dark brown hair that almost hid the way his ears stuck out, and a nose that was just a little too big for his face.

Unlike Natasha, he seemed to see no point in pretending to be excited or even pleasant. He was scowling as he made his way to the stage, his pale blue eyes glaring. Glaring at Valery, at Natasha, even at Miriam. Miriam tried to hide a smile. His attitude wouldn't win him any points with the Capitol audience, but it was a bit refreshing to see someone who didn't bother trying to hide the fact that he was actually _upset_ about being sent into a fight to the death.

Valery, however, looked quite disappointed as she reached into the bowl one more time. "Alasdair Bryant!"

Valery's frown only grew as the twelve-year-old section parted around a boy in a light blue button-down shirt and dark blue pants. He was about average height, with fairly long, light reddish-brown hair.

For a moment, the boy looked like he might faint. He certainly didn't look like he would make it to the stage on his own. But, at last, someone gave him a nudge, and he started walking, hesitantly, towards the stage. His light brown eyes darted skittishly back and forth before finally coming to rest on Miriam. Miriam gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile, and that seemed to boost his courage enough to allow him to make it up the stairs, finally standing beside his two district partners.

Valery smiled, but the smile was clearly directed at Natasha rather than her two less promising district partners. Valery had already decided on the best candidate for the victorship. Miriam wasn't so sure. How many people, ten years ago, would have chosen the skinny factory girl over the eighteen-year-old volunteer who had joined up with the Careers? And yet here she was, and Andrei was dead.

Miriam shook the thought from her head. Natasha wasn't Andrei. She hadn't asked for this. None of these three had. It was obvious as they reluctantly shook hands: none of them wanted to be here. And yet here they were. And soon they would be leaving the district – maybe forever.

But a part of them would always remain.

* * *

><p><strong>Alasdair Bryant, 12<strong>

They wouldn't go away.

Alasdair closed his eyes, trying to block the images. His class three years ago, on a tour of a factory. The explosion. The lights, the sounds. The screams. He remembered running. Panting. Terrified and desperate. Realizing only after he was safe that the others were still inside. Still trapped. That he had abandoned them.

Of course, there wasn't anything he could have done. A nine-year-old boy couldn't have saved them, anyway. But that didn't change the fact that he hadn't tried. He hadn't even thought about them. He had panicked, thinking for a moment that he could outrun even death.

But now death had finally caught up with him, too.

As it caught up with everyone in the end. He was no different. Just one more tribute from District Three. One more death in the Hunger Games. Tiny. Insignificant.

He had no chance of winning, of course. He had already accepted that, the moment his name was called. Maybe even before. He had considered the possibility, of course – he was even half-expecting the name to be his. He was going to die. There was nothing he could do about it. And that was all right.

But the waiting wasn't.

Because in the waiting, the silence, their faces returned. So he had learned to keep himself busy. To find other things – other people – to focus his time and energy on, because he couldn't stand being alone with his thoughts.

Now he was more alone than ever.

But not for long. Maybe he couldn't help himself, but he could find someone. Someone else, someone worth helping. Someone to make his last days worth it, to give his last moments purpose. He was going to die, but his death didn't have to be meaningless. He could help someone else come home, give them a chance to live the full, meaningful life he would never have.

Alasdair took a deep breath. This time, he wouldn't panic. He wouldn't run. He wouldn't waste his last days in a futile effort to save himself. This time, he wouldn't leave anyone behind.

This time, he would get it right.

* * *

><p><strong>Eigen Vallant, 14<strong>

They wouldn't go away.

Eigen crossed his arms over his chest, still glaring as his parents sat awkwardly beside him. Why were they still here? There was nothing they could do. Why didn't they just leave?

"We love you, Eigen," his mother said quietly, scooting a little closer to him. Eigen didn't budge. Maybe that was still true; maybe it wasn't. Wasn't going to help him much either way. Love wasn't something that helped in the arena. It was something that got people killed.

"Is there anything you want – for a district token?" his father asked, trying to break the awkwardness.

Eigen considered for a moment, thinking of his own personal belongings. At least, they were 'his' in the sense that they belonged to him now, not the unfortunate classmates who had owned them before he, Sev, and Null had taken them. Money. Trinkets. Gadgets. But he wasn't attached to any of them for their own sake. He had never been sentimental. And none of them would help him in the arena.

Besides, he wanted them to be waiting for him when he got back.

Eigen shook his head. "No. I don't need anything."

And he never had. He and his gang had never had much use for gadgets or fancy weapons. His own fists had served him just fine for years, and they would serve him just as well in the arena. He would have to make do without Sev and Null, but he could find others. They had never been more than means to an end, anyway. They were replaceable.

And they, too, would be waiting when he returned. Returned with all the money and power he could ever want. But he would have no more need of them. Or anyone.

What would that be like?

Eigen was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he almost didn't notice when his parents left. He shook his head. Good riddance. He wouldn't need them, either, if he came home a victor.

No. Not if. When. He wouldn't let it end like this. He wouldn't die in some cheap arena, killed by some other pathetic little tribute. He wouldn't let them kill him, so that left only one option:

He would be the one to kill them.

* * *

><p><strong>Natasha Kovaćić, 16<strong>

They wouldn't go away.

Natasha watched as, one after another, they paraded through the room. Aunts, uncles, cousins, distant relatives she barely knew, cousins so many times removed she'd never heard their names, let alone met them. All here to wish her well. All hoping she would make the family proud.

And she would try, of course. But not for them. To them, she was just one more tribute who happened to share their last name. One more chance for the family to make their mark – not just as a runner-up, of which they had more than their share, but as a victor. Most of them didn't know her – not well, at least. Most of them wouldn't notice if she never came home. She certainly wouldn't be the first.

Natasha breathed a sigh of relief as the last of them finally left. Maybe she should be grateful that so many people at least pretended to care, but all she felt was overwhelmed. Trying to focus on surviving would be hard enough. She didn't want to carry the weight of her family's legacy with her into the arena.

Natasha closed her eyes. One by one, she whispered their names – or as many as she knew – trying to let go of each of them. Each name she breathed lifted a small weight from her shoulders. Finally, she was left with only one name: her own. Natasha.

Just Natasha.

She shook her head. She wasn't even sure who that was sometimes. Who _she_ was. The Games had always cast a shadow over her family. Over her life. Over her older brother, Anton, who had taken his own life when she was little rather than face the reaping. Over her parents – her father, a supporter of the Games, and her mother, who shared most of the district's fear of them – who had split soon after. Over her younger brother Luka, finally old enough for the reaping himself.

And now her. Headed into the Games. Into a Quarter Quell. Maybe going to her death.

Natasha clenched her fists. No. She wasn't going to die. Not like this – not as just another Kovaćić tribute. No, she would live. Not for them. Not for the family. Not for their honor or a chance to redeem their name. But for herself. For Natasha.

Just Natasha.

* * *

><p>"<em>I believe that when we leave a place, part of it goes with us and part of us remains … Long after we are gone, our voices will linger in these walls for as long as this place remains. But I will admit that the part of me that is going will very much miss the part of you that is staying."<em>


	5. District Four: In-Between

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Just a friendly reminder to keep an eye out for allies as we go through the reapings, and PM me if you think you see a good match.

Thank you to _LokiThisIsMadness_, _sunlight comes creeping in_, and _Jakey121 _for Calissa, Kinley, and Barclay, respectively.

* * *

><p><strong>District Four Reaping<br>****In-Between**

* * *

><p><strong>Misha Brimmer, 20<br>****Victor of the 22****nd**** Hunger Games**

He wouldn't go back.

Misha glanced frantically from camera to camera. They were waiting. Just waiting. Waiting for him to return to the Capitol. That was the reason for the Quell – he knew it. Three tributes meant three mentors. Which meant he would have to go back.

But he wouldn't.

They couldn't make him.

Misha drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. Mags reached over and placed a hand gently on his. Trying to calm him. Trying to be kind. Reassuring. Naomi took the other. More for appearance, he knew, than anything else. They had to look like a team. District Four's mentors, proud and strong for the crowd.

If only they knew.

"Just one year," Mags had told him. Next year, it would be back to her and Naomi. Or her and a new victor. Not him. He would never have to do this again.

Or so she said.

And she was right about that, at least: If he went back now, he would never have to mentor again. They would kill him first. Someone in the Capitol. Maybe one of the other victors. It didn't matter who it was; the Capitol wasn't safe.

He would never be safe again.

District Four's escort, Ignacio Alvarez, took his place by the microphone. Misha shook his head. A pointless exercise – pretending that it mattered which name he drew. Everyone knew the reapings were rigged. Well, anyone with any sense. Which, of course, explained why no one noticed. Idiots, all of them. Complacent idiots.

Especially here. And in One and Two. Districts where, for years, that terrible reaping bowl hadn't mattered one bit. But now it was back with a vengeance to claim three lives instead of two.

Maybe it was better this way. Better for it to at least appear random – even if it wasn't. Certainly better than the lie he had been told: that life as a victor was worth volunteering for. Worth risking his life for. Worth almost dying for.

Worth killing for.

Worth poisoning his allies, leaving them, paralyzed and helpless, at the mouth of the cornucopia. Bait, for whoever had been picking them off one by one. Worth killing the boy from Twelve, who had thought his strategy was so clever. Worth driving a knife through his allies' hearts as they lay there, powerless to resist.

The quickest finale in Hunger Games history.

Which was why they had to kill him. Why they were looking for any chance. Any chance to draw him back to the Capitol.

They could kill him here, as well, of course. At any moment. Nowhere was safe, even though he rarely left his house. But the Capitol would be better. A larger audience. A grander stage. Yes, that had to be what they were planning: some sort of public death.

But they wouldn't get it. They couldn't make him go.

Ignacio reached into the bowl and drew a name. "Calissa Hart!"

_Rigged. _Rigged, rigged, rigged. Calissa was one of Naomi's students; even Misha knew that. Quickly, he followed Naomi's gaze to the eighteen-year-old section, where the crowd parted around a girl in a dark blue dress and a leather jacket. She was staring, shocked. She had trained, yes, but Misha knew she hadn't planned on volunteering this year. Not really.

But now she had no choice.

After a moment, another girl leaned over and whispered something in Calissa's ear. The girl laughed, quickly putting on a smile. A mask. The same mask that District Four tributes had worn for years. She stepped quickly into the aisle, pausing briefly to give a kiss to a boy as she passed. Misha rolled his eyes. Kisses should have been saved for the goodbyes, but at least she knew how to put on a show.

She certainly looked the part. She was tall and strong – not overly muscular, but lean and hardy. Her hair was something between auburn and dark blonde, depending on the light, and hung in waves down past her shoulders. Her eyes were light blue and, to his relief, free of tears as she quickly took the stage and even gave the escort a hug. Ignacio, surprised but clearly pleased by her apparent enthusiasm, grinned as Calissa gave the three mentors a nod and then turned to face the audience.

"That's the spirit!" Ignacio laughed. "And our second lucky tribute is … Kinley Arnoult!"

The eighteen-year-old section parted again, this time for a willowy girl in a knee-length white dress and flats. For a long time, she simply stood there, different emotions vying for control of her expression. Disbelief. Terror. Desperation. Misha's hands gripped the arms of his chair. Was she thinking about running? Trying to hide? Pointless. All pointless. They would catch her. They caught everyone, eventually.

Even him.

But, at last, the girl began to walk shakily towards the stage, her face growing paler with every second, her light blue eyes barely holding back tears. At last, as she took her place next to Calissa, she forced an uneasy smile onto her face. She was about as tall as her district partner, but slimmer and with a few more curves. Her long, blonde hair hung loose around her face, hiding a bit of her fear. But not enough. She still looked terribly vulnerable.

But they were all vulnerable – even Calissa, who looked so strong and confident. She just didn't know it yet.

"Barclay Mattison!"

_Definitely rigged._

Not because the name was familiar – it wasn't – but because, once again, the name belonged to an eighteen-year-old. The crowd parted around a boy in a bright blue shirt and grey shorts. But, even as the crowd moved away, the boy drew two of the other boys back in for a hug, smiling sadly as he held them close for a moment. After a moment, he let go, gave a quick nod, and stepped out into the aisle, pausing for a moment to squeeze a girl's hand on the way up to the stage.

He certainly looked impressive: tall, broad-shouldered, well-muscled. He had jet black hair, dark eyebrows, and a rather large nose. But there was something else. Something about his bearing. Or maybe his smile.

Or maybe just the fact that, when asked to shake hands, he reached for Kinley's first.

Details. Why did people never notice the details?

Misha shook his head as the tributes were led away. Now he just had to slip away. Make it back to his house. To safety. Well, _relative_ safety. Better than being herded off to the train. Better than the Capitol.

But Naomi caught his hand first. "Misha, we decided that since it's your first time mentoring—"

"—only time mentoring," Mags amended reassuringly.

"Fine," Naomi agreed. "In any case, we thought it would be fair to give you first choice."

Misha shook his head. "I'm not going."

Naomi sighed. "Well, in that case, I'll take Calissa."

"Student of yours?" Mags asked.

Naomi nodded. "Not the one I would have picked, but better than Teary Girl and Huggy Boy. Which one do you want, Mags?"

"I'll take Kinley, but I'll probably end up working with both of them because Misha—"

Misha didn't hear how that sentence ended. They were distracted. He saw his chance and he took it, racing towards Victors' Village. He could do it. All he had to do was get home. He could barricade the doors. Hide in the tunnels he'd patiently dug over the last three years. He could hold out for a while.

Until the Games were over.

But he never got the chance. The Peacekeepers came out of nowhere. One of them forced something over his nose and mouth. "Careful with him," another said. "Don't want a dead victor on our hands. Just get him on the train."

The train. No. No, he wouldn't let them. Misha flailed blindly, but he could feel his senses dulling. Some sort of anesthetic. He had to fight it.

He had to…

* * *

><p><strong>Calissa Hart, 18<strong>

_You have to smile._

Calissa shook her head. That was what Carina had whispered at the reaping. It was so stupid. Smile as you go to what might be your death. Smile as you stand onstage with two other people who want to kill you. Smile, smile, smile.

But she _had_ smiled. Because that was what the district expected. Especially from someone who had trained. And most of them didn't know any better. Most of them would assume – or at least entertain the possibility – that she would have volunteered, anyway, if she could have.

Maybe she could fool them. Pass her initial hesitance off as surprise that her name had actually been called, like she'd wanted. And if she could fool the other tributes – and maybe even the Capitol – then she would have a better chance.

But she couldn't fool Killian. As soon as her boyfriend entered the room, she could practically feel the sympathy in his gaze as he threw his arms around her. Sympathy that she wouldn't want from anyone else. But he knew. Knew why she had been training. Knew that she had no desire to kill, but simply wanted to be ready, to be prepared when death decided to strike again.

The first time, she hadn't been prepared. She had been in training to be a nurse, proud as could be that she would be saving lives. She'd only had a few months of training, but she had been alone that day. That day they brought him in – Dylan. They had found him washed up on the beach.

Part of her knew she should have waited. Waited for help. Called someone with more experience. But she had panicked. Time was critical, after all. She had tried to save him herself, the way she had seen other doctors and nurses save patients who had drowned.

But it had all gone wrong. She had never been sure exactly what she had done wrong – only that, by the time the others got there, he was dead. And she hadn't been ready. Hadn't been ready for that defeat. Hadn't been ready to face death.

So she had begun training. So that, the next time death looked her in the face, she would be prepared. She had never meant to volunteer for the Games. But now here she was, anyway.

And she was ready.

* * *

><p><strong>Kinley Arnoult, 18<strong>

_You have a chance._

Kinley buried her face in her hands. That was what she had tried to tell herself at the reaping: that she had a chance. That none of the others would have any training, either, so she had as good of a chance as anyone else.

But that "equal chance" was still one out of thirty six.

Kinley looked up as the others came in and sat down beside her. Felicity, Mariah, Jaqueline, Carolene. All trying to look optimistic. Confident. Certain their friend would be coming back.

She wished she felt as certain as they looked.

Felicity wrapped an arm around Kinley's shoulders. "You can do this. You've probably got more training than most of the others."

That was probably true. The group of them had been to the center every now and then. But none of them had ever taken it that seriously. They'd never paid for any of the trainers to work with them; they had simply gone and tried to figure it out on their own. None of them had ever planned on volunteering – and Felicity and Carolene were both nineteen now, too old to volunteer, anyway. It had just been something to do. Something fun. Something new and exciting.

Now she wished she'd paid more attention.

"Who knows?" Mariah offered. "Maybe one of the other tributes has seen us around the training center. Maybe they noticed you. Maybe they'll assume—"

_Assume what? _she wanted to blurt out. _Assume I'm good with a weapon? Assume I want to be here, despite the fact that I was crying onstage? Assume I can fight?_

_ Assume I can kill?_

But she didn't say any of it. She didn't want her friends to be upset. Not when this might be the last time she ever saw them. No. No, she couldn't leave them like that.

Kinley forced a smile. "Maybe. Maybe that'll be enough to get me into the pack."

But did she even want that? Did she really want to team up with anyone who _wanted_ to be there? Did she want to ally with someone who was eager to kill?

Someone who might be eager to kill her?

"If there even _is_ a pack," Jaqueline pointed out. "None of the others are volunteers, either. Who knows how much training they've had?"

She had a point. Maybe _none_ of them were bloodthirsty killers. Most of them were probably just like her.

She wasn't sure whether that made it better or worse.

* * *

><p><strong>Barclay Mattison, 18<strong>

_You have to let go now._

Barclay shook his head. Part of him heard the Peacekeeper at the door, telling him to move. Telling him to let go. But he didn't want to. Not yet.

He wasn't ready.

He wasn't ready to let go of Marielle, who looked up at him with admiration shining in her eyes. His little sister, who wanted to grow up to do exactly what he was about to do: go into the Games. It didn't matter to her that it wasn't what he wanted at all. She was proud of him. She wanted to be just like him.

But he didn't want to be here at all.

He wasn't ready to let go of his friends. Aren and Kennedy and Mina. He wasn't ready to leave them behind, to step into a world where he knew no one. Where everyone else would be trying to kill him. He wasn't ready to leave the safety of his district.

He wasn't ready to kill.

Oh, he'd been to the training center. Almost everyone had, at one point or another. His family had the money to pay for whatever training he'd wanted, but he and his friends had rarely taken advantage of that. The first time they'd tried, a few years ago, they had quickly gotten bored and left. It wasn't as exciting as it had looked.

But he still liked to go and watch. Watch the boys and girls hack away at those dummies, even though it made him sick when he imagined actually doing that to a person. Didn't they realize that was what they were training for? Didn't they realize that they would be killing _people_, not tearing apart stuffed bags and shooting clay birds?

And now _he_ would have to do the same.

He wasn't ready. He wasn't ready to become one of them. Heartless. Ruthless. He didn't want to be that. He didn't want to.

But he also didn't want to die.

Barclay held his friends closer as the Peacekeeper came barging in the door, shouting that they were already late. That the train would be leaving soon. Barclay held on even tighter. Maybe if he held on long enough, the train would leave without him.

Maybe if he just held on…

* * *

><p>"<em>The past tempts us, the present confuses us, and the future frightens us. And our lives slip away, moment by moment, lost in that vast terrible in-between." <em>


	6. District Five: Delusions

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Thank you to _ShayCandyBar714_, _Acereader55_, and _addicted-to-my-reflection _for Mirami, Mercury, and Niles, respectively.

* * *

><p><strong>District Five Reaping<br>****Delusions**

* * *

><p><strong>Sabine Plecity, 21<br>****Victor of the 20****th**** Hunger Games**

"Not a bad idea for a Quell twist."

Sabine glanced over at Harakusie as they made their way over to Tania's house. "Not a bad idea? Twelve more kids are going to die! How is that 'not bad'?"

Beside them, Jai chuckled a little, clearly entertained. Harakuise shot him a look. "Yes?"

Jai smirked. "Oh, nothing. Please, go on. I want to hear this, too."

Harakuise shrugged obligingly. "If you insist. Tell me, Sabine, what makes this any different from a normal year?"

Sabine glared; she hated it when he got that teacher-coaxing-on-a-student tone of voice, as if she was still his tribute in the Games. But she answered, anyway. "Twelve more tributes."

Harakuise nodded. "One per district, yes?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Now let's say that, tomorrow, the Peacekeepers were to execute someone – let's say a teenager, for consistency's sake – for, oh, I don't know, attacking them with a weapon. Would that bother you?"

"Not really." That's what Peacekeepers did.

"And if there were, say, an armed rebellion, and the Capitol fought back, and killed the rebels – would you be upset about that?"

"Well, no, but—"

Harakuise nodded. "So what's the difference?"

"The kids who are reaped – they didn't _do _anything. They weren't carrying weapons. They didn't start a rebellion. They don't want to be there."

"Says the girl who volunteered."

Sabine glared. "That was different. I was—"

"Suicidal. Desperate. You had the sense to realize that your life here wasn't so great, after all, so you decided to go after something better – all or nothing. That's what the Quell is doing this year – giving twelve more tributes a chance at the same thing."

"But only one can win. So the chances actually go down."

Harakuise shrugged. "Let's not pretend this is about the odds. It's never really a one-in-twenty-four chance, anyway. No one ever has a completely equal chance of winning; this year is no different."

Sabine shook her head. She wasn't going to get anywhere. "You actually believe all that."

Jai smirked. "Five years of practically living with us, and you haven't realized that yet? He's completely sincere."

"Absolutely," Harakuise agreed. "But you put up with me, anyway."

Sabine smiled a little. He was right. She put up with him. He and Jai put up with her. Maybe it was a little strange, but families always were.

And they were the only family she had.

After collecting their remaining family member, Tania, the four of them headed for the square. Jai headed off into the crowd, saluting playfully. "Don't burn down the house while we're gone," Harakuise called causally after him as the three of them took their places onstage. Sabine caught a few snickers from the audience as she took a seat next to her mentor.

_Twelve more. One per district. Not as bad as it could be._

Sabine reached out and took Tania's hand in hers. Tania smiled back gratefully. Sabine knew this would be hardest on her; she hadn't mentored in five years. Not since Sabine had won and taken her place. A place Tania had been happy to surrender.

The traditional video played, beginning with the Capitol anthem. Harakuise immediately rose to his feet, standing perfectly at attention. Sabine hid a smile as she followed his example.

When the video was finished, the three of them sat down again, and the mayor read off their names. Three of them. More than any other non-Career district. In fact, only District One could claim more victors. Maybe that _was_ something to be proud of.

Their escort, Ariadne Kingsley, certainly seemed to think so. She flashed each of them a smile before turning her attention to the reaping bowl. Reaching in quickly, she snatched up the first name her fingers found.

"Mirami Fiyan!"

The fourteen-year-old section parted around a girl in a strapless pastel-blue dress and a flouncy skirt. Then, to Sabine's surprise, the girl's face broke out in a huge grin, as if she'd been hoping this would happen. She was practically skipping as she made her way to the stage, her short, dark brown hair bouncing up and down as she hurried up the steps, her brown eyes glowing with excitement.

Sabine couldn't help staring. Was the girl trying to put on a good show, or was she simply insane? At the moment, she was impossible to read. Sabine glanced over at Harakuise, who simply shrugged. He'd seen weirder. And the look he gave her was clear as day: _Someone who volunteered for this has absolutely no room to question anyone's sanity._

He had a point.

"Mercury Helix!"

The fifteen-year-old section parted around a girl in a white-and-blue t-shirt and jeans. For a moment, she simply stood there, her mouth hanging open a little. But, as the Peacekeepers began to move towards her, she closed her mouth, brushed away a few tears, and put on a smile that was almost convincing. She hurried to the stage, blowing a few kisses, and threw her arms excitedly around her new district partner, who quickly returned the gesture.

Other than their apparent enthusiasm, the girls looked very little alike. Mercury was taller and paler, with blonde hair, bright green eyes, and a few freckles. Now that she was closer, Sabine could see that both her shirt and pants were well-worn and had a few holes. But they were both grinning as they turned to Ariadne, waiting for the last name…

"Niles Avdeyev!"

The sixteen-year-old section parted around a boy at the very edge of the section, already as far away from the others as he could get. He was about average height but thinner than usual, with short, dark hair and unusually pale skin. He was staring, shocked, blinking rapidly.

Then, without any warning, he began marching his way toward the stage, shouting. Cursing. Cursing the Capitol. Cursing the district. Cursing the escort and, finally, cursing his fellow tributes. "Look at you! Just standing there, grinning, while you're led to the slaughter! In front of a district that doesn't have the backbone to do anything about it! And you!" He wheeled around, blue eyes bright with anger, and turned his tirade on Harakuise. "The worst of the lot! Silence is one thing, but _you_, you _support _all of this! And they worship you for it! You—"

He would likely have continued for quite a while, but a blow to the head from one of the Peacekeeper's clubs quickly silenced him. Sabine glanced over at Harakuise, who, to her surprise, didn't appear upset or even fazed. In fact, he was smiling a little, his expression almost smug. Had he been expecting this?

Had he _arranged _this?

Sabine swallowed hard. It was easy to forget, sometimes, just how powerful he was. Just how much influence he had. To her, he was simply her mentor. But to the district – or, at least, to the more rebellious citizens – his name still evoked a certain amount of fear.

The stage and the crowd cleared quickly after that, leaving the three victors. "Well," Harakuise said at last, "I suppose I'll take—"

"I'll take the boy," Tania interrupted before he could say it.

Harakuise cocked an eyebrow. "Really? Why?" But his tone wasn't accusing – merely curious.

Tania met his gaze. "Because you want him dead. And most likely, he will be dead. I'm not an idiot, Harakuise; I know how the Games work. But I won't let you be the one to lead him to it. I won't let you do that to him … or to yourself. I won't let you _be_ that. I won't let you become … _him_."

That stopped Harakuise in his tracks. Sabine knew who she was talking about. The victors all knew – unofficially – what had happened to Pardeck, the mentor who had intentionally sought his tributes' deaths in the Games. And everyone also knew who had taken him down.

Harakuise nodded a little, subdued. "I … thank you."

"You're welcome."

Harakuise hesitated for a moment, visibly rattled, before regaining his composure, putting on a back-to-business expression, and turning to Sabine. "Preference?"

Sabine thought for a moment. From the look of things, the girls would work well together, anyway. But Mercury was a little older. And it had taken her a moment to put on her enthusiastic front, which meant there was something underneath. "I'll take Mercury."

Harakuise nodded crisply. "All yours."

Sabine shook her head. He'd let her choose first for the past four years. And she had yet to have a tribute who made it farther than his. He was always the first to point out that 'making it farther' didn't really matter. And he was right, of course. Second place was no different than twenty-fourth, in the end; both ended up dead. But maybe this year would be different.

Maybe this year.

* * *

><p><strong>Mirami Fiyan, 14<strong>

The Capitol.

Mirami was still smiling at the thought. She had dreamt of the Capitol all her life, and now, she would finally see it for herself. See it in all its beauty, all its glory – and during a Quarter Quell, no less. As special as it could get. And if she won – no, _when_ she won – she would never have to come back to District Five again. Surely they would let her stay in the Capitol, where she belonged.

Mirami was still smiling when her parents entered the room. They looked a little nervous, but they were probably just upset about not being able to see her for a week or two. But they would – they would be watching the screen the whole time, after all. She would be there. And maybe they could move to the Capitol with her, when she won.

Her mother forced a shaky smile as she slipped Mirami's favorite silver ring onto her hand. Her father wrapped an arm around her. "We love you, sweetie," he said gently. "Come back to us."

Mirami nodded. She would. Of course she would. Everyone knew that tributes who loved the Capitol were always favorites in the Games. They would adore her – and why not? Everyone else did. Why, only yesterday, after Mirami had given her a beautiful necklace for her birthday, Lacie had told her that she was the best friend in the world.

Mirami grinned even wider when Lacie entered the room. Lacie smiled nervously. "I just came to say … well, good luck."

Mirami beamed. "When I win, I'll share part of my winnings with you. We'll have everything we ever wanted."

That cheered her up. The promise of shared wealth also cheered up the next dozen or so of her classmates who came. And why not? She would have more than enough for everyone. The Capitol was so generous to its victors. Her friends would never want for anything ever again.

At last, they were all gone, and Mirami sat fiddling her ring. So many people. And all so supportive. And if so many people wanted her to win, how could she lose?

She could hardly wait.

* * *

><p><strong>Mercury Helix, 15<strong>

_Stay positive._

Mercury took a few deep breaths, trying to calm her nerves. It had been easier when her family was there. Easier to smile. Easier to laugh. Easier to try to make a joke out of the situation, to keep the atmosphere light. And she wanted to keep smiling. To look on the bright side.

But there weren't too many bright sides to a fight to the death.

But surely there was something. Something good about this. Sure, she was headed to the Capitol, and about the be thrown into an arena with thirty-five teenagers who would be trying to kill her … but it couldn't _all _be bad.

There had to be _something_ good.

The Capitol. That would be good. She'd heard stories about the wealth, the comfort, the luxury that would be theirs for a short time before the Games. The food, the warm showers, the soft beds – that would be good. She could look forward to that.

And the clothes. She had always secretly admired the Capitol's fashions. Most people thought they were strange, but most people were too serious for their own good, anyway. The Capitol's clothes were bright, cheerful, light-hearted – everything that the other students, always engaged in their work, looked down on her for. But the Capitol people would accept her for who she was. They loved anything new and different, just like her.

Maybe that was where she really belonged.

But not for long. Only a few days. And then…

No. No, she wouldn't think about that. Not yet. There was still the Capitol to look forward to. She would enjoy that. She would savor it, soak it all in, enjoy every moment that she could.

Then she would worry about the Games.

No point in worrying about them right now, anyway. There wasn't anything she could do about them at the moment. Fretting about them wouldn't make them go away. It was only a waste of time.

And she didn't want to waste whatever time she had left.

* * *

><p><strong>Niles Avdeyev, 16<strong>

No one came.

Niles paced the room, agitated, for what seemed like hours, but was probably only a matter of minutes. Where were they? Surely they were coming. He and his father had always had their differences, especially after what had happened to his mother, but their family had always been close. They wouldn't abandon him now.

They couldn't.

Finally, the door opened, but on the other side stood a pale woman with bright red hair. Tania. Niles took a step forward. "What are _you_ doing here? Where's my family?"

Tania looked away. "I'm sorry, Niles. I truly am. They wanted to come. But … they've been arrested."

Arrested. His father had been arrested before – mostly for disturbing the peace with his protests and threats against the Capitol. But something in Tania's voice told him that this time was different. And what about Nyran and Metisse? "All of them?"

Tania nodded. "They were taken immediately after the reaping."

Niles glared. "This is your friend's doing, isn't it. Harakuise."

"Yes."

"What's going to happen to them?"

Tania swallowed hard. "He's arranged for their execution – immediately following your death."

Niles took a step back. Execution. Following his death. "But I'm not going to die. I'm coming back, and when I do—"

Tania was shaking her head. "Niles, listen to me. Your family's history—"

"My family stands for equality! Tearing down the Capitol and redistributing what they rightfully owe us!" He'd heard the words so many times from his father, he could have repeated them in his sleep.

But Tania seemed not to have heard. "Your family has survived this long only because Harakuise was convinced you couldn't do any real damage. No one was listening to your father; most of the people don't trust him. But they decided this was the right time. The first Quarter Quell. A big spectacle. It was only a matter of time."

Only a matter of time. Could it be true? Had he truly been living on borrowed time? "Then the reaping was rigged? I was meant to be chosen?"

Tania nodded. "I suspect so, yes."

"Then why me? Why not all three of us?" Why not his twin brother, Nyran? Why not Metisse, who had just turned fourteen a few days ago? Both were of reaping age. So why not make it a real spectacle?

But he already knew the answer. Three Avdeyev children in the Games could band together. They wanted him alone when he made his last stand.

But it wouldn't be his last. He would find a way. Whatever it took, he would find a way to survive. To defy the Capitol. To bring them down.

Whatever it took.

* * *

><p>"<em>If you're going to have delusions, may as well go for the really satisfying ones."<em>


	7. District Six: Apathy

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Yep, another update. Expect them a bit more frequently this month; I'm counting this as my NaNoWriMo project. 50,000 words in a month, here I come. :)

Thank you to _kopycat101_, _Indigo Starling, _and _Conatus_ for Ryzer, Cassandra, and Luke, respectively.

* * *

><p><strong>District Six Reaping<br>****Apathy**

* * *

><p><strong>Vernon Barrow, 29<br>****Victor of the 13****th**** Hunger Games**

Why did he do this to himself?

Vernon shook his head. "Matt! Luke! Erik!" he called again. "We're going to be late!"

As if they would start without him. District Six's only victor. No, they would wait. But it was better not to make a scene.

Finally, they came running out of the shop – the three boys he had taken in five years ago. Orphans, all of them. His way of making up for what he had done during the Games. The lives he had taken. He had killed three boys. Now he was raising three boys. It evened itself out.

At least, that's what he tried to tell himself.

He never told the boys, of course. They thought he was simply being kind. Or maybe they thought they showed some promise in his mechanic shop, which he had reopened as a distraction. Something to take his mind off of his memories. And they _did_ show some promise. All three would make excellent mechanics some day.

Assuming they lived long enough.

_Stop thinking like that. _The chances of them being reaped were minimal. Thanks to his support, none of them had ever had to take tesserae. It was Matt's last year. Next year would be Luke's last. And then Erik's, two years after that.

Then they would be safe.

They still looked nervous, but he could hardly blame them for that. He had been more than nervous. He had been terrified. But he had survived. They could do the same. He was no weapons expert, but he had taught them a little. The four of them would occasionally spar with some of the spare parts around the shop. And all three were good with their hands. They would have a good, fighting chance – which was all that anyone could ask for.

_Stop it._

It wasn't going to happen. None of them would be reaped. He was just being paranoid. There were plenty of other children. Poorer children. Children with their names in the bowl more times. It wouldn't be one of them.

It couldn't be.

They headed for the square together. Matt, Luke, and Erik joined the other boys, and Vernon took his place onstage. Their escort, Roderick Kane, barely glanced at him. He was waiting – just waiting – for a chance to be bumped up to District Five, where they had three victors instead of one.

Vernon clenched his fists. One was better than none. He was doing the best he could. The best he knew how to do. It wasn't his fault that most of the children who had been chosen as his tributes stood no chance. It wasn't his fault the Careers had dominated the Games for the last four years. Maybe this year, with no volunteers, the outer districts would have a better chance.

Vernon held his breath as Roderick reached into the bowl and drew a name. _Not Matt. Not Luke. Not Erik._

"Luke Marsanskis!"

_Damn it. _Vernon fought to keep his face blank. Emotionless. His eyes quickly found Luke in the seventeen-year-old section. The boy was struggling to do the same. Slowly walking towards the stage, trying to keep his expression calm, his eyes fixed on Vernon. Vernon gave a slight nod, and Luke managed to smile a little. Okay. They could get through this.

Together.

If Roderick recognized their connection, he gave no sign. It wasn't as if it was obvious. Pale-skinned, with short cropped light brown hair and light brown eyes, Luke looked nothing like Vernon. Looked nothing like his "brothers." There was no way for Roderick to know they were family.

And, for now, that was all right. No need to make a big deal out of it now. Later, they could decide how much to tell the Capitol. Decide whether the connection would draw sympathy or make him a target. Later.

First they had to get through two more names.

Roderick reached into the bowl again. _Not Matt. Not Erik. _One of them being there, he could deal with. He could focus his attention on Luke. But if he was forced to choose…

"Cassandra Sake!"

The seventeen-year-old section parted for a girl in a light grey dress. Vernon could see the fear in her face. The panic. She was tall, but terribly thin and bony, her skin extremely pale, her hair light brown, sparse, and short.

Vernon fought back a surge of pity. He couldn't afford to feel sorry for her. Any other year, she would have had his sympathy. But not this year. This year, she had to die. Because Luke had to live.

Then, suddenly, the fear in her gaze was gone. As the girl began walking towards the stage, she almost looked bored. Her pace was careful, measured – not too fast, not too slow. Neither eager nor apprehensive. Her large brown eyes met his, staring at him. _Through _him. As if she didn't even care that he was there. That _she_ was there. As if, for some reason, none of it mattered.

Vernon looked away. Maybe she had already given up. That would make this easier. Easier to ignore her. Easier to forget that he was supposed to mentor all three of them. But how was he supposed to do that, with Luke here? It was too much for one person.

Too much…

"Ryzer Hijore."

Vernon breathed a sigh of relief. Matt and Erik were safe – Erik for another year, Matt forever. The sixteen-year-old section made way for a girl in a navy blue shirt, long black coat, and faded black skirt. Most of her face was hidden by her bangs, but, after a moment, the girl gave a laugh. A cackle, really. Vernon stared, startled, as the girl skipped up to the stage, grinning.

She was almost as pale and thin as the other girl, but a bit shorter. Her hair, long and dark, hung past her shoulders, her bangs shielding her eyes. As she bounded up the stairs, however, her hair bounced back and forth, and Vernon caught a glimpse beneath them. Her left eye was covered with a patch, but the other was a deep brown – almost black – and was studying her district partners curiously.

After a moment, Ryzer held out her hand to the other girl, who hesitated before shaking it. Ryzer pumped Cassandra's arm cheerily up and down, then did the same to Luke. At last, Luke held out his hand to Cassandra, who shook it weakly.

And then it was over. Vernon watched as the three of them were herded away. Then he found Matt and Erik in the audience. Both were pretty badly shaken. "You'll make sure he comes back, right?" Erik asked, near tears.

"Of course I will," Vernon nodded. And he would. He would do his best. For them. For Luke. For himself.

This was his chance to make it right.

* * *

><p><strong>Luke Marsanskis, 17<strong>

Vernon came along with Matt and Erik.

Luke hugged his adoptive father tightly. Obviously, this wasn't goodbye; as his mentor, Vernon would be with him in the Capitol. They would make it through this together, the two of them.

Because he might as well admit it: it _would_ be just the two of them. The other two would have to fend for themselves. A small part of him felt guilty for it, but what else could they do? It wasn't his fault Vernon didn't have someone else to help him mentor the other two. And it wasn't Vernon's fault, either. He'd tried his best to bring back another victor, but, so far, had been unsuccessful.

But this year would be different. This year, he had a reason to try even harder than normal. This year, they would be coming back together.

Luke ruffled Erik's hair a little. "Take care of the shop while we're gone, okay."

_While we're gone_. As if they were simply going on a trip together – father and son. They all knew better, of course, but it felt good to pretend. To imagine, if only for a moment, that the Games weren't that big a deal. That they could simply go, spend a few weeks in the Capitol, and come back as if nothing had happened.

But they all knew better. He had spent enough time with Vernon to know that no one returned from the Games quite the same as when they went in. The Games had changed Vernon, as they changed every other victor. There was a part of him that no one in the district understood, that even his adopted sons couldn't share.

Until now.

Now they had this in common. And, as frightened as he was, Luke couldn't help but be grateful for that. For this one thing that would bind them together forever, even tighter than before. Father and son. Mentor and tribute. Together, they could get through this.

Together, they could face anything.

But they wouldn't be together in the arena. Luke held his family close, trying to imagine that. Trying to imagine being alone. Facing danger without them at his side. The thought bothered him more than he wanted to admit.

Matt and Erik left, but Vernon stayed. He stayed until the Peacekeepers came to bring them to the train. And for that, Luke was grateful. Eventually, he would have to face the Games on his own. But not yet.

Not yet.

* * *

><p><strong>Cassandra Sake, 17<strong>

This was her chance.

Cassandra tucked her knees to her chest, watching as her family left. She hadn't realized it until she'd heard her name. Hadn't put the pieces together. But this was her chance. Her chance to make everything right again.

If she won, the Capitol would cure her. If she won, everything would be all right again. There would be no more lying in bed, too weak to go to school with the other children. No more looks of disgust from her neighbors. No more grudging help from her family. She would never need to rely on them again. She would never be a burden to them again.

But first she had to win.

Most people saw the Games as a death sentence. But the doctors had as good as sentenced her to death years ago. At the most, she had only a few years left, anyway. A few years or a few days – what difference did it make? Either way, she was living on borrowed time.

Unless she won.

Cassandra closed her eyes, trying to focus. Yes. Yes, she could do this. This was her chance to make up for the misery she had caused her family over the years. Her only chance to make things right. For them. For herself. For the life she'd never had.

Cassandra clenched her fists. She could do it. She would. They were dead – all thirty-five of them. Every last one. She would kill all of them herself, if that was what she had to do. She would do anything.

_Anything_.

And why not? What had they ever done to deserve her pity? Her mercy? Outside her family, no one had ever shown her sympathy. Why should they expect any better from her? They were no different than any of the other teenagers who had mocked and scorned her all these years.

A freak, they called her. Or a demon. Or a monster. Or a witch. They laughed at her. Spat at her. Mocked and despised her. They deserved no better. They deserved no mercy.

So she would show them none.

* * *

><p><strong>Ryzer Hijore, 16<strong>

Maybe it was better this way.

Ryzer hummed a little as she sat, rocking back and forth, waiting. Just waiting. No one was coming; she was fairly sure of that. She hadn't seen her mother since she'd left home a little over a year ago, deciding that her chances were better on the streets.

But maybe her chances were actually better in the Games.

She would have starved, soon, anyway; she was fairly certain of that. In the months after she had left, she had quickly grown thinner. Frailer. She had resorted to eating rats. Mice. Birds that had been left in the gutter by cats. Sometimes the cats themselves, if she could catch them. But that wasn't very often. Cats were even quicker than they looked. And smarter.

But so was she. She had seen what the others had missed. What her district partner had missed. She had seen their mentor watching the boy. Carefully. Protectively. They knew each other.

And that was bad news for her and Cassandra.

Or good news. It meant they were on their own. But she'd been on her own for a long time. Longer than she'd been on the streets. She worked well on her own. Alone with her book, her spells, her rhymes.

But there was something appealing about working with the others – or at least with Cassandra. There was something about her. Something beautiful. Something unique.

Ryzer giggled. She would get her chance. Vernon would focus his attention on Luke; she and Cassandra would be on their own. But Luke wouldn't have Vernon with him in the arena. The three of them would be on their own.

Three. That was a good number. Special, just like this Quell. Three of them. Then two. Then one. Then none. Whether in a few weeks or in many years – sooner or later, none of the three would be left.

Three. Ryzer gave another little cackle, singing softly.

_When shall we three meet again,  
><em>_Meet again, meet again?  
><em>_When shall we three meet again?  
><em>_In lightning or in rain?  
><em>_When the hurlyburly's done,  
><em>_When the battle's lost and won.  
><em>_That will be ere the set of sun,  
><em>_When we three meet again._

* * *

><p>"<em>Perhaps bravery is simply apathy with delusions of grandeur."<em>


	8. District Seven: Prepared

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Just a friendly reminder to keep an eye out for allies as we go through the reapings.

Thank you to _Cheive_, _Aspect of One_, and _Aileen's feather_ for Jason, Viktoria, and Saoirse, respectively.

* * *

><p><strong>District Seven Reaping<br>****Prepared**

* * *

><p><strong>Hazel Birnam, 34<br>****Victor of the 3****rd**** Hunger Games**

She was alone.

Hazel looked away as their new escort, Davina Waverly, grinned enthusiastically at her despite the rain. She felt more alone now than ever before. Arthrim, her own mentor and then District Seven's escort for twenty-one years, had passed away after a heart attack a few months before. Davina was new. Inexperienced. Naïve. Bursting with energy, eager for the chance to be bumped up a district or two. Up to a district where they had proper victors, not a twelve-year-old girl who had won only because the Gamemakers had taken sides against a rebel.

Because that was the only reason she was still alive. And, for a while, she had been grateful. Regardless of the reason, at least she had survived. She still had a life to live.

But none of her tributes could say the same.

Twenty-one years, and what did she have to show for it? Forty-two dead children. Forty-two broken families. There had been a few close chances. Twelve years ago, the boy, Ellery, had made it to the final two before meeting his fate at Vernon's hands.

But it hadn't been enough.

_Maybe this year_.

It was the same old song, the same thing she told herself every year. _This year. This year will be different_. Every year, she got her hopes up. Every year, she told herself that _this_ year's tributes were different. This year, they had a chance.

And she was always wrong.

But she kept saying it. She had to. She couldn't just give up on them, despite what she told herself. Because once she saw them – once she _met _them – she simply couldn't bear not to try, no matter how much it hurt. They were depending on her. They needed her.

And she needed them. Just once – just _once _– she needed one of them to come home. Then maybe her own victory, her own life, would mean something. Would be worth something.

Maybe.

Davina grinned as the mayor finished her speech, then took her place by the reaping bowl. Hazel scanned the crowd. Three names this year. Three children, instead of two. And at least two of them would be dead soon. But not three. Not this year.

Not this time.

Davina drew a name, stared at it for a moment, perplexed, then gave it her best try. "Sour-see Terris?"

Hazel cringed. Clearly, Davina had badly mispronounced the name. But the sixteen-year-old section parted, anyway, making way for a girl in a dark red dress and old, well-worn sneakers. But no sooner had she taken a few steps forward than a voice called out, "I volunteer!"

The girl whirled around, just as startled as anyone else, to see that the voice belonged to a boy in the fifteen-year-old section, waving his arms wildly, still shouting that he wanted to volunteer. "I … I'm sorry," Davina stammered, not quite sure how to respond to that. "There aren't any volunteers allowed this year. Maybe next year, dearie."

"But I want to volunteer _this_ year!" the boy insisted. But, before he got any farther than that, he was interrupted by another boy – this one in the eighteen-year-old section, shouting that he wanted to volunteer, as well. By now, the Peacekeepers were stirring, making their way toward the girl and the two boys. The girl noticed, and hurried to the stage before anyone else could try to volunteer.

She was about average height, with long, curly brown hair and bright blue eyes. Once onstage, she flashed a smirk at Davina. "Actually, it's Saoirse."

"Pardon?" Davina asked, quite flustered by the whole affair.

"My name. It's pronounced 'Sir-shuh,'" she corrected, still smirking. Hazel couldn't hide a smile. Davina had clearly been hoping for an explanation for what had just happened, but the girl offered none.

So Davina turned back to the reaping bowl and drew another name, barely containing a sigh of relief when the second name turned out to be far easier to pronounce. "Jason Vaz!"

The fifteen-year-old section parted for a boy in a tan button-down shirt and brown striped pants. For a moment, he simply stood there, unmoving, maybe hoping that someone would try to volunteer for him as well – even though it had been useless. When he finally started walking to the stage, Hazel could see that he was already crying, though his face was wrinkled with anger, not sadness. His fists were tightly clenched but trembling uncontrollably as he took his place beside his district partner.

He was a little taller than her, with dark, curly hair and deep brown eyes. Saoirse smiled a little – maybe trying to be welcoming, maybe just glad that none of the boys who had tried to volunteer for her were standing in his place. Jason glared back, but his glare wasn't meant for her; it was directed at the whole reaping. The whole idea of standing here, waiting to be taken away to his death.

Davina, however, seemed unconcerned with his attitude. She simply turned back to the reaping bowl and drew a third name. "Viktoria Halisent!"

The sixteen-year-old section parted around a slender girl in a light blue dress. The girl stared for a moment, uncertain, before taking her first few hesitant steps towards the stage. After a few more steps, she began to walk faster, perhaps trying to hide the fact that she was shaking like a leaf. She was still trembling as she took her place beside her district partners.

She was about average height, with fair skin and light brown hair reaching midway down her back. Her dark brown eyes were brimming with tears as the other girl shook her hand. Mercifully, the cameras snapped off as soon as the handshakes were finished. The Capitol didn't see her burst into tears. The Capitol didn't see the other girl wrap her arms around her, then reach out and pull the boy in for a hug, as well, while the rain beat down even harder.

But Hazel saw. She always saw. This was the hard part: the moment when the tributes recognized that they were all facing the same thing. They were connected by a shared terror, a shared dread. The moment when fear made companions of them all. And, yet, at the same time, the moment where they recognized that, in order for them to come home, the other tribute – the other _child_ – had to die.

Hazel looked away, trying not to remember. Trying not to think of Sylvan, of how he had comforted her the same way. How he had protected her, looked after her during the Games, given his life to save her.

But he'd had to die. Only one of them could make it home. Just as only one of these three could live. Two of them would have to die.

But only two. Not all of them. Not this year.

Not again.

* * *

><p><strong>Saoirse Terris, 16<strong>

They had been trying to help.

Saoirse held her brothers close, savoring their presence for what she knew might be the last time. They had been trying to create a distraction, to allow her time to run. To hide. To get away.

But it was pointless. She had seen people run at the reaping. No one ever got away. Why would she be any different? Where could she have gone? And what would they have done to her brothers for helping her try to escape?

No. No, it was better this way. She was headed to the Games, but they were safe. Safe for another year.

"I'm sorry it didn't work," Trevor repeated. "I thought it was a good plan."

"I would have volunteered for real if I could," Levi agreed.

"Me, too," Armin echoed.

Saoirse could feel her tears brimming. She was glad they couldn't. She wasn't glad _she_ was going into the Games, of course, but, of the four of them … she wouldn't wish this on any of them. She wouldn't want any of them to take her place.

She would never be able to live with herself.

For a moment – a terrible moment before the next two names were called – she had feared that one of them would be going with her. But they were safe.

She would be alone.

But not just yet. For now, the six of them sat together, Saoirse and her brothers huddled close, their parents seated nearby. When, at last, she let go, she could see that Armin was sobbing. Before she could stop herself, Saoirse was crying, too. She couldn't stand to see her little brother upset. She couldn't leave them like this.

Not like this.

But there wasn't anything else to say. No words of comfort to give. They all knew the odds – even worse than normal. Thirty-six tributes, and only one could live. Did she really have any reason to expect that it would be her?

"I love you," she whispered at last, quietly, as the Peacekeepers came to show them out. She hugged each of them tightly, one last time. Then, all too soon, she was alone, sobbing into her sleeve, already wishing she could see them again. But, in order to do that, she would have to fight. She would have to kill. She would have to win.

But they were worth it. Coming home to them – it was worth fighting for.

Worth killing for.

* * *

><p><strong>Jason Vaz, 15<strong>

They all seemed so certain.

Jason did his best to smile at his friends, trying to appear as confident as they looked. How much of it was an act and how much of it they really felt, Jason wasn't sure. Were they just trying to make him feel better, or did they truly believe he would be coming home?

"You can do this," Todd insisted.

He said it a little too quickly, a little too easily, for Jason's liking. "How do you _know_?" he snapped. "How can you be so certain? How can all of you just sit there like this might not be the last … the last time…"

He trailed off. If this really _was_ the last time – if it was the last time he would see his friends, the last time he would talk to them – then he didn't want to leave them like this. He didn't want to be angry with them. He didn't want their last memories of him to be like this.

"I'm sorry," he said after a moment. "You're right. Of course I'll do my best. I'll try to win, but if I don't … if I can't … I just want you to know … you're the best, all of you."

Kristof punched him playfully. "Of course we are."

Jason shook his head. "No, I mean it. You're the best friends I could ask for, and if I don't make it … just … be there for each other. And keep an eye on Robin, will you?" Jason didn't know – maybe he didn't _want_ to know – how his little brother would react if he died. Would he be able to handle it?

No. No, he wouldn't have to. Jason clenched his fists, holding onto that thought as the Peacekeepers came and led the others away. He couldn't force them to deal with that. He couldn't make all of them – his friends, his parents, his little brother – face losing him.

He would just have to come back. For them.

Because he had meant it: They were the best friends he could ask for. They had been there for him – and he for them – through everything. And they would be waiting for him when he came home.

Because they were worth it. Coming back to them – it was worth fighting for.

Worth killing for.

* * *

><p><strong>Viktoria Halisent, 16<strong>

Anatoli had found out everything he could.

Viktoria listened intently as her brother spilled all the details he had managed to gather about the others. "The boy's parents own a hardware store. Fairly well off – chances are, he's never had to go without. He's been in trouble before – nothing serious. Pulling a prank here, picking a fight there. Sounds like he's got a bit of a temper; watch out for that. The girl's got three brothers – they're the ones who caused all the fuss at the reaping. She'll probably be naturally protective of the boy. Use that to your advantage if you can."

Viktoria nodded. Anatoli didn't miss much. His insight often came in handy when scouting out their next targets. Just as useful as her persuasive skills. They made a good pair.

They had started small, the two of them – a little con here, a little pickpocketing there. But, after a few years, they had perfected their craft. Anatoli used his boss' blacksmith shop to forge cheap tools and trinkets, which always fetched a good price on the black market. He provided the goods, and she was an expert salesman.

At first, they had done it for the money. Now, they did it for the thrill – coming up with more elaborate cons, just to see how much they could get away with. They rarely kept any of the money any more, preferring to spread the wealth to those who needed it more. Just like the Robber Prince in the stories.

Viktoria shook the thought from her head. Those were just stories. But she didn't live in a story. The Robber Prince wasn't real. The Games were. Her opponents were. And anything Anatoli could find out about them – no matter how ordinary or seemingly insignificant – was useful. "Thank you," she nodded, knowing he had done his best. The only thing he could do to help her now.

"You're welcome," Anatoli nodded. After a moment, he added, "Don't trust them."

Viktoria scoffed. That went without saying. Trust was for people with nothing on the line. There was certainly no place for it in the Games. She would work with them, if she had to. Manipulate them, as she and Anatoli had manipulated so many others. But trust them? No, she couldn't afford that.

Because she had to come home. Which meant they had to die. Maybe at her hands. But coming home – back to her brother, back to the life they had together – that was worth it. Worth fighting for.

Worth killing for.

* * *

><p>"<em>You're not just a dreamer. You're a soldier! How far are you prepared to go? How much are you prepared to risk? How many people are you prepared to sacrifice for victory?"<em>


	9. District Eight: React

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Thank you to _Jael .Rice __.1_, _nevergone4ever_, and _Deuce Ex Machina _for Enzo, Shilo, and Fletcher, respectively.

* * *

><p><strong>District Eight Reaping<br>****React**

* * *

><p><strong>Carolina Young, 33<br>****Victor of the 10****th**** Hunger Games**

"There has to be more to it."

Carolina shook her head as she, Lander, and Mabel made their way to the square. "It just doesn't make sense. The Quell could have been anything. Something more extravagant, more complicated. Adding a tribute is rather … straightforward."

Lander nodded. "True, but this is just the part that will affect the reaping. My guess is, once they're in the arena, there'll be more. A complex arena, different mutts, special weapons – who knows?"

"Still, they could have doubled the number of tributes," Carolina pointed out. "Or tripled it. We could have ended up with six tributes. Or eight. Or ten. Three is—" She cut herself off when she saw Mabel's horrified expression. She had almost said _okay_. And it wasn't okay. Twelve more children were going to die. Twelve children who would have been safe, if only this year hadn't had an extra twist. "Manageable," she decided. "Three is manageable."

"Yeah," Lander agreed. "For us, maybe. But I wouldn't want to be mentoring alone during this thing."

He had a point. There were two of them. But Miriam, Vernon, Hazel – they were still on their own, along with whomever the Capitol had found to mentor District Twelve this year. Last year's mentor, Lucian, had made it very clear that he had no intention of returning, Quarter Quell or not.

At least she and Lander had each other.

"I'll take two," Carolina offered. "You handled two tributes alone for four years; it's probably my turn."

"You bet it is. My turn to pick first, though."

Carolina nodded. That was the deal they'd made: whoever's tribute died first one year got their choice which of the two tributes they wanted to mentor the next year. Last year, Brigid had died in the bloodbath, while Trace had made it to the final seven. So it was Lander's to pick.

Maybe it was morbid, but it kept them sane.

Most of the time, it didn't make much of a difference. The four of them – Carolina, Lander, and the two tributes – usually all ended up working closely together, anyway. But, once, there had been a tribute – a girl named Camryn – who had wanted to keep her own training separate, thinking she had a better chance if her district partner didn't know what she was planning.

That was the year Carolina had realized how much she and Lander relied on each other.

Camryn, irritated by Lander's attitude and frustrated by his advice, had decided to do the exact opposite, and ended up getting herself killed in the bloodbath. The boy had lasted a little longer before his allies had turned on him – allies Carolina had thought he could trust. Since then, they'd done their best to encourage their tributes to at least start out making their plans together, because the simple truth was that she and Lander were better as a team.

But, so far, they hadn't been good enough.

Lander squeezed Carolina's hand reassuringly as they headed for the stage, leaving Mabel safely in the audience with the other adults. Safe. She certainly deserved it, after all she'd been through. But that was behind her. Behind all of them. The pain, the loss, the grief – it would always be there, but the memories were no longer as sharp, the wounds no longer as deep.

She took the stairs slowly, gripping Lander's hand. Stairs were still hard. But she made it, and even managed to smile a little as the two of them took their places onstage. Still smiling for the cameras. Still putting on a show.

And Lander was still scowling.

Some things didn't change.

Samarin Lanair, their escort, gave each of them a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Carolina smiled at him – this time genuinely. Samarin had been with District Eight since the start of the Games. Twenty-five years. Other escorts had come and gone, traded districts, moved up to more desirable ones. But Sarmarin was still here. A constant in the ever-changing world of the Games.

Part of her admired him for that.

She and Lander, after all, had no say in the matter. They were stuck mentoring until they brought home another victor to take their place. But Samarin had a choice. And he was still here. Year after year. Tribute after tribute. Death after death.

After the first year, he had dyed his skin bright red. Blood-red.

Lander said it was fitting. His hands were stained red with blood every year – drawing children's names to die – so he may as well make it visible. Carolina wondered if Samarin saw it like that. Was it a reminder to him – a reminder of what his job really entailed? A reminder that, behind all the spectacle and the theatrics, people were dying?

She could understand that. She had her own reminder, after all. The Tenth Hunger Games had left Carolina without an eye – an eye that the Capitol had replaced, at her request, with a red one. A reminder of what she had done. What she had become. Who she was now.

Carolina squeezed Lander's hand a little as Samarin reached into the reaping bowl. She would never get used to this – the waiting. Waiting for the name to be read. Waiting for fate to choose its next victim.

"Enzo Farnese!"

The twelve-year-old section parted around a boy in an outfit that was clearly second-hand: a patched-up shirt and trousers that were too big for him, cuffed so that he wouldn't trip over his own feet. His hair was dark brown and shaggy, his nose a bit crooked. The boy stared, looking around with wide blue eyes, as if wondering why everyone was looking at him. One of the other boys said something, and the boy began shaking his head. No. No, they couldn't have called his name. No, they couldn't have chosen _him_.

Carolina's stomach churned as the Peacekeepers began to make their way towards the boy. _Come on,_ she pleaded silently. _Start walking. Don't make this worse._

She could already see Lander shaking his head. The boy was arguing with the Peacekeepers. Pleading. Begging. Crying that he didn't want to die, crying out for a friend – someone named Bobbie. Then, when that produced no results, calling for someone – anyone – to save him.

But no one would. No one could – not this year. Any other year, she could hope. Hope for a miracle. It had happened, a few times. Her own district partner, Shaw, had been a volunteer.

But not this year. This year, the Peacekeepers scooped up the struggling boy, hauling him to the stage and dumping him at Carolina's feet. As soon as they let go, however, the boy scrambled to his feet again, maybe thinking about making a break for it. A Peacekeeper stepped forward, club ready, prepared to subdue him, but, before he could, Carolina was at the boy's side, arms thrown around him, shielding him and holding him in place. The boy fell to his knees, sobbing. "It's okay," Carolina lied, holding him close, rubbing his back comfortingly, calming him down. "It'll be okay."

She heard Lander scoff, but that didn't matter. It didn't matter that she was lying. All that mattered was that the lie might convince the boy to stand still long enough for Samarin to finish his job. They could worry about the rest later.

Satisfied, the Peacekeeper backed off, and Samarin turned back to the reaping bowl and drew another name. "Janardan Fletcher!"

The eighteen-year-old section parted around a boy in a dark blue, button-down shirt and black pants. He was strikingly average in appearance – average height, with fair skin, brown hair, and blue eyes. He was a bit leaner than average, his features a bit sharper, but nothing that would have made him stand out in a crowd.

If his name hadn't just been drawn for a fight to the death, of course.

The Peacekeepers immediately stirred – perhaps thrown off by Enzo's reaction – but the boy gave them no reason to intervene. He began walking towards the stage, quickly and confidently – at least to an untrained eye. Carolina could see the nervousness on his face slowly turn to determination as he took the stairs two at a time. Then he reached down, put an arm around his younger district partner's shoulders, and drew the boy to his feet.

The boy gave Carolina a nod, and she took her place at Lander's side again. Lander shook his head, his expression all too easy to read. _So we've got a crying twelve-year-old and a boy who wants to treat him like a little brother. What's next?_

"Shilo Chanteau!"

The fifteen-year-old section parted around a small girl in a loose white blouse and black shorts. Her long brown hair hid her face from the audience, her head bowed for a moment as she collected herself. But, before the Peacekeepers could step in, she gave an excited cry and darted up to the stage, smirking. She was short – even a little shorter than her twelve-year-old district partner – her face pale, her brown eyes wide with something between fear and excitement.

As she passed Carolina, she reached out a hand for a high-five. Carolina obliged, smiling. Playing along. It was an act, but acting was better than crying, as far as the Capitol was concerned. Lander rolled his eyes but slapped the girl's hand, as well. The girl then turned to her district partners. The younger one was staring at her, shocked that anyone could even _pretend _to be that excited about the Games, but the older one smiled along, gave her the high-five she wanted, and then clapped her on the back, shaking her hand firmly. He gave the younger boy a little nudge, and reluctantly, Enzo shook Shilo's hand, as well, then shook the older boy's, as well.

The cameras snapped off, and the crowd dispersed as the tributes were led away. Carolina turned to Lander, smiling wryly. "Your choice." She was almost glad it was his year to choose.

And Lander knew it. "Oh, you're just loving this." He shook his head. "I'll take the older boy. If we can break that protective streak, he's got a chance."

Carolina nodded. It sounded harsh, but Lander was right; protecting younger tributes looked great onstage, but it wouldn't help him once the Games started. She knew that better than most. She'd been the first to jump off her own chariot during the parade to run back and help a girl who had fainted. And it had felt right, in the moment. But everything changed once the Games began.

Carolina shook the thought from her head. This wasn't about Maeren. This was about the tributes they had now, two of whom were now hers. Hers to protect. Hers to advise. Hers to watch as at least one of them died.

Lander's hand squeezed hers tightly. "You all right?"

Carolina shook her head. "No."

Lander smirked. "Me, neither. Let's do this."

* * *

><p><strong>Enzo Farnese, 12<strong>

There was nothing she could have done.

Enzo held his friend Bobbie close, crying into her shoulder as she wrapped her arms around him. "I'm sorry," she whispered, over and over again. "I'm sorry I didn't do anything. I just…"

"It's okay," Enzo said quietly. "There's nothing you could have done. I was just scared." He was still scared, of course, but no longer quite as panicked. And he was trying to stay strong. At least long enough to say goodbye.

Because it probably would be goodbye – forever. He didn't want to admit it, and Shilo didn't say it, but what chance did he really have? With thirty-five other tributes – most of them quite a bit older – how could he even think that he would be the one coming home again?

But he didn't say it. He didn't want to upset her. Didn't want her to think that he'd already given up. She wouldn't like that. No reason to get her all upset.

But she _would _be upset later – when he died. No, _if_. _If_ he died. There was still a chance. A small chance, but a chance, nonetheless. Younger tributes had won before. Two of the victors had been fourteen. Hazel had been twelve. But everyone knew they were the exception – not the rule.

But exceptions sometimes happened. This whole Quarter Quell was a year of exceptions. Maybe he had a chance. Maybe…

Probably not, but maybe.

And "maybe" was better than "definitely not." _Maybe_ he could win. _Maybe _he could come home. _Maybe_ he would see Bobbie again.

But he couldn't count on that, so, as the Peacekeepers came to take her away, he gave her one last hug and whispered, "I'll miss you."

She held him even tighter. "I'll miss you, too." Then she let go. "But only for a few weeks. You're coming back."

Enzo nodded and managed to smile a little. "Yeah," he agreed, nodding as the Peacekeepers led her away. "Yeah, I am."

Maybe.

* * *

><p><strong>Shilo Chanteau, 15<strong>

It was almost funny.

Shilo smiled at the steady stream of people that trickled through the room. People she had met once or twice. People she barely knew. But people who felt obliged to come say goodbye, because they remembered her, or because they felt sorry for her. Not sorry enough to linger for hugs and tears, but sorry enough to show their faces. Sorry enough to mumble a few words of parting before heading back to their normal, everyday lives, grateful that they weren't in her place.

She wished _she_ wasn't in her place.

Not that she had a "normal, everyday" life that she wanted to go back to. Her life had always been far from normal, and she liked it that way. Maybe the audience in the Capitol would even recognize her – the child model from District Eight. The cute little girl in the fashion magazines, proud to represent her district once more.

Maybe that would be enough to help her in the Games.

Maybe. The Games weren't a fashion show, but being one of the more attractive, attention-grabbing tributes never hurt. But, in the end, tributes still needed to have the skills to back up that attention. Skills she didn't have. Skills that years of makeup and fancy outfits and cameras hadn't given her. She was prepared for the attention, prepared for the spotlight – but not prepared to fight. Not prepared to kill.

Still, she had time to get ready. Not much time, but she would make the best of it. And it wasn't as if the other tributes this year would have any training, either. For the most part, they would be on equal footing. She had a chance.

Maybe not the best chance, but still a chance.

So she kept smiling. Smiling at the people who told her they hoped they would see her again, the people who gave her advice, the people who said goodbye as if it were the last time and the people who didn't.

Because, either way, there was a part of her that was excited. Not for the Games themselves, but for the Capitol. The people, the excitement, the energy. District Eight was her home, but the people could be so … dull. Ordinary. Where she was going, nothing was ordinary. Nothing was average. There was no normal in the Games – there was only win or die. Kill or be killed. Alive or dead. One victor. One place in a spotlight that would last forever.

And there was a chance – however small – that it could be hers.

* * *

><p><strong>Janardan Fletcher, 18<strong>

He wished he could tell them.

Janardan's eyes darted around the room. They were almost certainly being watched. Almost certainly being listened to. This couldn't be a coincidence. The Capitol had finally caught up with him. But that didn't mean that they knew about the rest of them.

He was the one they were after, in the end. They had started the stories themselves for that very purpose – the stories of the Robber Prince. It was easier to avoid attention, easier to hide in plain sight, if the Capitol was only searching for one person, rather than six. At least, that was what they told each other. But, behind that, there was another reason. A reason no one mentioned – at least not out loud.

If one of them was caught – if one of them died – the others could carry on.

The other five – Victoria, Emmett, Chaser, Carlton, and little Davy – they would carry on the story. Keep up the legend. But only if they got away. Only if they escaped now, while they still had the chance. While the Capitol was busy with him.

The others didn't say much. They were smart – smart enough to know that the slightest word, the smallest change in their tone of voice – could give them away. Hopefully, the Peacekeepers who were surely listening at the door would assume that they were just friends. Just a random group of acquaintances.

Hopefully.

Because if they knew that they were inches away from having their hands on the whole Brotherhood of Bastards, they would have broken down the door by now and dragged the whole lot of them to the Capitol in chains. Maybe even thrown them all into the Games, just for show, in return for all the havoc they had caused throughout the districts.

He hugged them all tightly, one last time. Emmett, his right-hand man. Carlton, their resident genius, technical specialist, and all-around grump. Chaser, the prankster and joker of the group. Davy, their newest recruit, only twelve years old. And Victoria. He hugged Victoria last and longest. Neither of them said it, but they both knew. This was goodbye. The Capitol finally had their hands on the Robber Prince, and they weren't about to let him leave the Games alive.

Fletcher smiled a little, clapping his friends on the back. If they wanted him, they could have him – and he would give them the fight of their lives. But his friends were safe. They would carry on without him. "Go," he nodded, and he knew they understood. They had to run. They had to escape. They had to survive.

That was all that mattered now.

* * *

><p>"<em>Sometimes the test is not to find the answer. It is to see how you react when you realize there <em>is_ no answer."_


	10. District Nine: Pretending

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Thank you to _MornieGalad Baggins_, _The Knife Throwing Expert_, and _Khloe Grace _for Dennar, Asteria, and Radiance, respectively.

* * *

><p><strong>District Nine Reaping<br>****Pretending**

* * *

><p><strong>Tobiah Clement, 24<br>****Victor of the 18****th**** Hunger Games**

It was almost noon when Crispin woke him.

Tobiah groaned weakly and rolled over on his side, trying to block out Crispin's voice. It sounded like he was shouting, but that was probably just the hangover. It was hard to imagine Crispin actually shouting. Then again, it was hard to picture him killing other tributes, but apparently he had. He'd won, after all. He must have killed someone.

Tobiah had missed most of that. He'd spent his first year as a mentor in the same state he'd been in since his own Games – either drunk, high, or forgetting his troubles with a pleasurably distracting woman. A woman poor enough and desperate enough that she didn't care if the man she was sleeping with was a drunk, an addict, or a murderer, as long as he paid well.

And he did. He always did. He had more than enough to go around, and it was the least he could do.

"Come on, Tobiah, you'll be late." _Again_. Crispin didn't say it, but the word was there, on the tip of his tongue. Tobiah sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose with his right hand. His left one was gone – lost in a fight with his own district partner, Pamela, during the finale of his own Games.

They'd wanted to replace it. Wanted to cover up the scars – scars from the razor-sharp stalks of wheat that had covered his arena. Wanted to wash away the pain, pretend it never happened – and, at the same time, revel in the glory. They wanted the best of both worlds: victory without sacrifice, without pain, without loss.

They were idiots.

He'd refused. Refused treatment, refused a mechanical hand, refused everything. He would've refused the prize money, too, if morphling wasn't so expensive. But, like everything else, it came with a price. And if the Capitol could throw him into a fight to the death for their own entertainment, they could damn well pay for the resulting drug habit, as well.

The drugs. "I need to pack—"

Crispin cut him off. "Already done. You can tune out once we're on the train. Just get through the reaping, okay?"

Reluctantly, Tobiah nodded. He'd never understand how Crispin did it every year – strong, sober, healthy. How could he stand it – leading two kids off to their deaths? How could he not want to crawl inside a bottle and let them fend for themselves? After all, he'd gotten through the Games on his own – Tobiah certainly hadn't been much help. Why not trust that the other tributes could do the same?

Because he needed to feel useful, probably. Ever since Crispin had returned from his own Games, he'd spent every possible moment helping someone. Pitching in with the harvest, helping out at the orphanage, visiting the elderly or the dying – anything. Anything to distract him from his memories, anything to try to make up for what he had done.

That was one way of dealing with it.

Tobiah shook his head. His way was easier.

Crispin helped him to his feet and into a somewhat more presentable outfit, then half-carried him to the square and up onstage. Most of the crowd was already there, but they hadn't actually started yet. They weren't late. Not this year.

Crispin was learning.

Their escort, Maddie Doyle, sighed discontentedly as they took their places. Tobiah ignored her. If being in the first district that could claim back-to-back victors wasn't good enough for her, that was her problem, not his. His biggest problem was getting through the reaping, and that was quite enough for him. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the pounding in his head, the pain that shot through his eyes as the sun glared down, the murmurs in the crowd that sounded like thunder rolling across the plains.

The plains. He didn't even look out at the plains. The endless fields of wheat, stretching as far as the eye could see. He didn't want to see. He didn't want to remember.

He just wanted to go home.

But he had to get through the Games first. And to do that, he had to get through the reaping. One thing at a time. Just get through this.

_Just get through this._

"Asteria Cordey!"

Tobiah opened his eyes, startled. Had he tuned out the mayor's whole speech? Not that it would have been anything interesting. About as interesting as the girl who stepped out of the sixteen-year-old section, with no sign of surprise other than a raised eyebrow. The girl let out a deep sigh and started walking toward the stage, her cream-colored dress bouncing up and down a little with every step, making Tobiah dizzy.

She was tall and thin, with long, red hair, a round face, and freckles. She smiled a little at Tobiah and Crispin as she took the stage. Tobiah smiled back lazily, almost amused. _Already happy about dying. That's good. Certainly better than being miserable about living._

"Radiance Allor!"

Tobiah cocked an eyebrow. The name sounded vaguely familiar. And the girl who stepped out of the seventeen-year-old section looked familiar, as well – tall and slender, long-legged, dimpled. Fair skin and long, brown hair. She was wearing a plain grey, wool dress and brown boots – not her usual attire, so it took him a moment to place her. But then she looked up, her chocolate brown eyes brimming with tears, and he recognized her.

If she recognized him, it didn't show. She hadn't known him as Tobiah Clement, District Nine's first Victor. She'd simply known him as a customer – one who happened to be missing a hand but paid extremely well. He'd told her he lost the hand in a factory accident. She'd told him she was nineteen.

Apparently, they were both liars.

She was crying as she took her place next to the other girl, who stood awkwardly beside her but made no move to comfort her. _Someone should_. Before he knew it, Tobiah was on his feet – but then he was on the ground, too dizzy even to stand properly. Both girls stepped away from him, disgusted.

He couldn't exactly blame them.

Crispin helped him back into his chair as Maddie called out the last name. "Dennar Viesennor!"

No sooner had the name left her lips than a boy in a dark green shirt and khaki pants stepped out of the fourteen-year-old section, wasting no time as he walked briskly to the stage. He was small and skinny, but his dark hair was neatly combed, his face and outfit perfectly clean, his dark brown eyes free of tears.

He took his place onstage, smiling sadly – but at his district partners, not the audience. Without once glancing at the cameras, he whispered something to Radiance, who was still crying, and drew her into a hug. She obliged, and was soon sobbing into his shoulder. He looked startled for a moment but held her tightly nonetheless, only letting go when they were instructed to shake hands and get on with it.

Tobiah watched them leave. He knew he should feel bad. He should feel bad that, in all likelihood, all three of them were going to their deaths. He should feel bad that he was going to be far too drunk to be of much use once they were on the train. He should feel bad that he didn't care.

But he didn't. He didn't feel bad. And he didn't care – not really. They were going to die either way, so what was the point in getting attached, in getting worked up about it? Why bother trying, year after year after year, when it was all for nothing? Even if they made it home, their lives would be miserable.

Why work his heart out for that?

"Want anyone this year?" Crispin asked, more out of habit than out of an expectation that this would be the year Tobiah would pull it together and actually be of any use.

Tobiah shook his head. "You've got this covered, Crispy. Me, I'm just along for the ride."

That was more than enough for him to worry about.

* * *

><p><strong>Asteria Cordey, 16<strong>

With any luck, they would ignore her.

Asteria smiled, staring off into space, trying to block out what was happening. It usually worked. As long as she appeared blissful and clueless, most people left her alone. Even her mother.

Especially her mother.

After all, why yell at someone who just smiles back? Why take her anger out on someone who would just stand there and take it with a spacey smile, letting the words flow right off her, right over her, but never through her.

Asteria laughed a little, though there was no one there to hear. They had come and gone – her mother and father, her friend Divane, a few others from school. One had said that she would miss her. She'd already given her up for dead.

Maybe she was right. But it wouldn't help to cry about it. She'd learned enough to know that crying only made things worse – only made people more upset, made it harder to think, harder to react. And crying attracted people. It attracted sympathy, sure, but it also attracted predators, as surely as a mouse's whiskers twitching in the fields attracted the hawks from above.

She didn't want to be a mouse.

But then what animal was she? She certainly wasn't one of the hawks. No, a hawk would have taken advantage of the fact that the other girl had been crying, that the boy had tried to comfort her. A hawk would have made an effort to look like the strong one of the batch.

But she wasn't the strong one. She wasn't a predator. And she wasn't the prey. She was somewhere in between. Or in the background. Unnoticed by both. Unseen. Hidden – maybe hidden underground. Like a prairie dog.

Yes. Yes, that was it. She had seen them sometimes – scurrying around the fields, darting into their tunnels when danger was near. Curious. Playful. Frantic.

Yes, she was a prairie dog. Her smile was her tunnel – her protection from the outside world. And it had served her well so far. It had kept her safe.

But how long would that last?

* * *

><p><strong>Radiance Allor, 17<strong>

With any luck, they would ignore her.

Radiance closed her eyes. Why shouldn't they? Everyone else did. The girls at school, the people on the streets. Even her customers – the ones who were supposed to be enjoying themselves. They were enjoying the pleasure, not _her_. They ignored her. And she ignored them.

It was better that way.

This was no different. Just another bad night. Another nightmare. Another horror to get through and move on, because there was no other option.

Or maybe because she deserved it.

Radiance wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her dress. She _did_ deserve it. It was her fault. She had left the fireplace burning. That was what had started the fire – the fire that had claimed her mother's life, destroyed their house, thrust them all into poverty. And she did her part – her job paid well – but it still wasn't enough to make up for that moment of carelessness.

Nothing would ever be enough.

So she paid the price every night. Because she deserved it. Because her family needed it. Because how else was she supposed to earn money? Her job paid better than working in the fields, better than working in the factories. And what had it cost her?

Only her pride.

A small price to pay. A small price to allow her family to eat. Tears came to her eyes again. What would they do now – now that she would probably never come back?

But if she did…

They would never want for anything again. Her father would never have to work again. She would never have to sell herself again. Her little brother would never know the shame or the despair that she had.

But only if she won.

Radiance buried her face in her hands again. Wishful thinking. What chance did she have, in the end? She wasn't strong, wasn't fast, wasn't skilled. In fact, the only thing she really had going for her was that most people would probably ignore her.

But how long would that last?

* * *

><p><strong>Dennar Viesennor, 14<strong>

He couldn't just ignore them.

Dennar held Tess' hand a little tighter. The old woman gazed down at him with a sad smile that mirrored his own. "I know it's hard for you, sweetie," she said kindly. "But you can't help them. Not really. You have to help yourself."

Dennar nodded. She was right. It was hard. All his life, he'd tried to help people. Listening to their problems. Helping them through the hard times. Spending time with the elderly or the dying. That was how he had met Tess. She was dying – slowly, painfully – but she never let on. Never complained. He had always admired that about her.

He was trying to do the same. Not complaining. Not fussing. Just carrying on, because that was what they needed. He needed to be strong for them – for his parents, for his sister, for his friends. He had promised them he would try – try to come back.

And he couldn't do that if he was trying to help everyone else.

But how could he just ignore them? And what was the harm in trying to comfort them a little? It wasn't as if he was just going to sit back and let them kill him, but the Games hadn't even started yet. Where was the harm in comforting one of his district partners who wasn't taking it quite so well?

No harm. No harm yet.

He could wait. _Later. _Later, he would stop – stop caring, stop worrying about how they felt, how he could make them feel better. But not yet. For now, he would care. He would listen. He would help.

Because without that, who was he?

Dennar gave Tess one last hug. Probably the last, either way. She was dying. There was a good chance that he was, too. No sense in lying about it – either of them.

"Take care of yourself," Dennar said quietly, knowing full well that she probably wouldn't. She still worked too hard, still gave everything she could, even though she had so little time left.

And he would do the same. Right up to the end. He would make the best of whatever time he had left. He would make it worth something.

But how long would that last?

* * *

><p>"<em>You can't deal with problems by pretending they don't exist."<em>


	11. District Ten: Voice

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Writing was temporarily delayed this weekend due to the fact that _I got a cat! _Yes, that's right. The sweetheart in my picture is my little baby. Her name's Mirage, and she's adorable.

Now I can blame typos on her tendency to walk across my keyboard while I'm typing.

Just a friendly reminder to keep an eye out for allies as we go through the reapings, and PM me if you think you see a good match.

Thank you to _SpaceAgeDino_, _mikitty bast_, and _Flintlightning_ for Grace, Corvo, and Hogan, respectively.

* * *

><p><strong>District Ten Reaping<br>****Voice**

* * *

><p><strong>Glenn Chester, 36<br>****Victor of the 4****th**** Hunger Games**

He wished he didn't have to put her through this.

Glenn shook his head as he lifted Tess into her wheelchair. She sat there, unmoving, as he finished his muffin and stuffed another into his pocket for later. Part of him wished he could simply leave her at home during the Games. Returning to the Capitol every year surely wasn't helping her condition, and it wasn't as if she was any help to the tributes.

But he couldn't. The Capitol insisted that both of them be there – at least until they had another mentor to replace her. Two tributes, two mentors. Except this year. This year, he would have three tributes – and still no help. But he brought her along every year, anyway, because that was what the Capitol wanted. And what the Capitol wanted, the Capitol got.

Besides, if he left her here, in District Ten, who would take care of her?

Not her family, certainly. To them, she was dead. Gone, as if she had never come back from the Games at all. Which wasn't all that far from the truth. Her mind had never truly returned with her to District Ten. Ever since watching the highlights of her Games, she had been almost completely unresponsive. She would eat. Sleep. Sometimes she would cry. But she couldn't feed herself. Couldn't dress herself. She was completely dependent on him, because he was the only one willing to take care of her.

It wasn't supposed to be his job. He was her mentor, not her caretaker. But, when her family turned her away, he couldn't simply leave her to die in another house in Victors' Village, uncared for, unloved. So he had taken her in, and, for the past eight years, he had cared for her as if she were his own daughter.

It was chilly out, so he wrapped a shawl around her shoulders before they headed to the square. The teenagers were huddled together for warmth, or maybe out of fear. Not that he blamed them one bit. He'd been just as afraid – maybe even more so.

Tess hadn't been afraid. She'd marched right up to the stage, radiating confidence and charm. That confidence had gotten her through the Games, but then it had failed her. She'd faced the Games head-on, but her mind had retreated from the aftermath, hiding deep inside.

He had plenty of experience with hiding, of course. During his own Games, Glenn had hidden in a swamp while the other tributes slaughtered each other. Never really expecting to survive – just trying to make it for one more day, and then another. Then, on the fifteenth day, a voice had proclaimed him the victor. He'd never fought. Never killed. It was the most disappointing finale in the history of the Games.

Except to him, of course. He was anything but disappointed to be alive. And while Tess had left the Games only to retreat into her own world, years of being a mentor had brought him out of his own shell. He wasn't the most well-known victor. He wasn't the strongest or the fastest or the cleverest. But he was alive. And he would always be grateful for that.

He finished his second muffin as they reached the stage. Gently, he lifted Tess from her wheelchair and carried her up the steps, placing her carefully in one of the chairs reserved for them onstage. Then he plopped into his own chair, catching his breath and considering whether he should resubmit his request for a ramp leading up to the stage.

Their escort, Hillary Walker, flashed him a tired smile, nodding at Tess. Glenn smiled back, grateful she hadn't been transferred to another district. Hillary had been there since Tess' Games, and had been more than willing to help him care for his fellow mentor during the festivities. In fact, Glenn suspected that was part of the reason she had stayed with District Ten for so long: she didn't want to leave Tess in anyone else's hands.

The Capitolites may have seemed cold-blooded to some, but they certainly did get attached to their victors.

And, despite her current state, that's what Tess was: a victor. So maybe it was good that she was there – a reminder to the Capitol of the toll the Games actually took. The price – mental and physical – that the victors actually paid.

Glenn shook the thought from his head. He was getting philosophical. It was a price he hadn't paid, after all. Aside from hunger, his Games had taken no physical toll. He had no blood on his hands, no deaths on his conscience. He was the least qualified person to speculate about the price of being a victor.

Yet speculate he did, because that was what kept him from going insane after all this time. Thinking and writing. Every year, he chronicled the tributes – their memories, their feelings, anything they were willing to share. And, after the Games, anything their families were willing to share. Most of the families were more than willing, grateful that their children would be remembered. A few had refused him, just as a few tributes had, saying that they'd rather return and share those memories themselves. And he understood that. But the reality was that most of them hadn't. And the only one who had … she hadn't shared anything in years.

The mayor finished his speech, and Hillary took her place by the reaping bowl. Turning her tired smile towards the crowd, she reached into the bowl and drew the first name her fingers found. "Hogan Graham!"

The eighteen-year-old section parted around a large boy in a white collared shirt, black suit, and tie. He was tall and muscular, with dark skin, close-cropped black hair, and dark brown eyes. He stood there for a moment, shocked, but, as Glenn watched, the shock on his face turned to anger. Rage. His hands clenched into fists, his whole body tense.

_Don't fight now. Save it for the Games._

And he didn't lash out. Didn't fight. He simply stormed up to the stage, furious. Glaring at Hillary, at Glenn and Tess, at the audience. Finally, he turned towards the cameras and opened his mouth, probably about to say something. But, before he could, Glenn was at his side, reaching for his hand, grinning and pumping his arm up and down. Drawing the cameras' attention. Playing the fool.

Hogan glared. "What are you doing?"

_Keeping you from saying something you'll regret later. _"Welcoming you! Congratulations, Hogan!" He turned to Hillary. "Sorry about that; couldn't contain my excitement. Please, do go on."

Hillary smiled gratefully and returned to her job. Glenn returned to his seat, content, as she read off the next name. "Corvo Arion!"

The seventeen-year-old section parted around a boy in a baggy black sweater and faded black pants. The boy stood perfectly still, staring up at the stage, his eyes drifting from Glenn and Tess to Hillary to Hogan and back again. Finally, the Peacekeepers began to make their way towards him, but, even as they did, the boy began to move, walking slowly towards the stage, frowning, his bony face pale and tense.

At last, he reached the stage and stood silently beside his district partner, biting down on his lip, trying desperately to keep his emotions in check. He was about average height, with dark hair and even darker eyes that seemed to stare right through Glenn. Not wanting to appear to be favoring one of his tributes, Glenn leapt up and repeated his performance, pumping Corvo's arm enthusiastically until the boy pulled away firmly, unamused at being welcomed to what might very well be his death.

Glenn didn't blame him one bit.

"Grace Sawyer!"

The fourteen-year-old section parted around a girl in a faded leather jacket, well-worn jeans, and a muddy pair of hiking boots. She swallowed hard, but began walking, taking small, stiff steps, her face pale and frightened. Glenn could hear her breathing heavily, trying to calm herself, as she slowly made her way up the steps.

She was about average height for her age and rather stocky, but, after to the two boys, she looked small. Her brown hair was pulled back in a bun, her brown eyes wide with barely-contained fear. But before she took her place beside her district partners, she held out her hand to Glenn, who was already standing, ready to shake it, which he did – just as heartily as he had for the other two. The girl finally smiled a little – a shaky smile, but a genuine one – as she turned to her two district partners and offered a handshake to first one, and then the other. Then the boys shook hands, and the cameras switched off.

Glenn watched as the three of them were led away, then, gently, lifted Tess and carried her down the stairs, as well. Before he could leave, though, Hillary hurried over to join him. "Thanks," she said gratefully. "For what you did up there – distracting them."

Glenn shrugged. "It's what I'm here for."

Hillary shook her head. "I'm pretty sure making a fool of yourself isn't in the job description."

"It is if it helps them. That's not just _in_ the job description; it _is_ the job description: I'm here to help." He smiled as he clapped Hillary on the back.

"And you are very, very welcome."

* * *

><p><strong>Grace Sawyer, 14<strong>

_We are one._

Grace closed her eyes as she held her family close, letting the words flow through her. Words that were etched in her mind, buried deep in her heart. Words that had given her comfort in the past. Words that had always reassured her, a promise that she wasn't alone.

But she felt alone now.

And that was the only way she would return: alone. No matter what she had been told, what she had been taught, what she had believed all these years, there was only one way to make it out of the Games alive: She would have to fight. She would have to kill.

_We are one_.

Grace squeezed her eyes tightly. One of the first things she had been taught – one of her family's closest-held beliefs – was that all life was precious. All life was dear to the One. All life was to be respected and preserved.

But didn't that include her life?

If the choice was between her life and another's, would it be wrong to choose hers? No. No, she couldn't imagine that it would be wrong to fight for her own life as strongly as she would for someone else's.

Grace gripped her father's hand tightly, her voice barely above a whisper, speaking the only thing that came to her mind. The only words she could find. "_Here, gathered together in common cause_—"

Her parents joined in. "_We agree to recognize this singular truth and this singular rule: that we must be kind to one another."_

Kind. Compassionate. How could she be that if she wanted to survive?

_"Because each voice enriches us and ennobles us, and each voice lost diminishes us."_

Each voice. Thirty-six voices, and thirty-five of them would be lost – one changed forever. Which one would be hers?

_"We are the voice of the Universe. The soul of Creation. The Fire that will light the way to a better future."_

A better future. Words. Maybe there would be a better future – someday. But would she live to see it?

_"We are one. We are One."_

The Peacekeeper's knock echoed through the room, and her parents rose to leave. Grace threw her arms around her father. "If I don't see you again…"

Her father held her close. "_If I don't see you again here, I will see you in a little while, in the place where no shadows fall._"

"_Where no shadows fall_," Grace repeated, letting go at last. She wasn't quite sure what that even meant – she never had been.

But she couldn't shake the feeling that she would find out soon.

* * *

><p><strong>Corvo Arion, 17<strong>

He was alone.

Corvo stared at the door. Jessamine had come and gone. He wasn't really expecting anyone else. Maybe a few of the others from the orphanage, but it wouldn't really surprise him if they didn't come. He'd always been more of a loner, and they knew it. No family. Few friends. No one who would really miss him.

Just as he'd resigned himself to spending the rest of the time allotted for goodbyes alone, the door opened once more, revealing a man in a Peacekeeper's uniform. At first, Corvo thought maybe he had lost track of the time. Maybe it was time to leave already.

But the Peacekeeper who had come was Tyrone. Corvo smiled a little as his friend took a seat beside him. A long time ago – it seemed like a lifetime – Corvo had dreamed of becoming a Peacekeeper, as well. Dreamed of fighting for justice on the streets of District Ten.

But that was just a dream – an old dream, long gone. Because most Peacekeepers weren't interested in justice. Tyrone was one of the good ones, but even he could be bought, swayed, manipulated. The system was corrupt. If there was any justice to be found – true justice – it lay elsewhere.

Still, he had to admit that Tyrone had been helpful. He'd taken Corvo under his wing, taught him everything he knew. The long nights that Corvo had spent in the shadows of District Ten's underbelly, sneaking from shadow to shadow, leaping from rooftop to rooftop – Tyrone had a hand in all that. And, for that, Corvo would always be grateful.

Tyrone shifted uncomfortably. "I just want you to know … if you don't make it back … I'll find them."

Corvo nodded. He knew who Tyrone was talking about. The criminals who had murdered his parents – the ones he had been searching for since he was young. "Thanks," Corvo agreed. "But I'd rather find them myself."

Tyrone smiled a little. That was what he'd wanted to hear. What he'd come hoping to hear: that Corvo wasn't going to just give up. And he wouldn't. He couldn't. He didn't have it in him to simply roll over and die.

But he wasn't kidding himself, either. There was always a chance – a chance that he wouldn't be the one to come home. Part of him hoped that Tyrone would be up to the task, if that was the case.

But part of him still hoped that he wouldn't have to be.

* * *

><p><strong>Hogan Graham, 18<strong>

They would be alone.

Hogan shook his head, pushing the thought from his mind. They wouldn't be alone. He wouldn't let that happen. They were counting on him, after all. His parents. His little sisters. He couldn't leave them.

It was different for the others – he could tell. Their families – if they even had them – didn't depend on them for survival. But ever since his father's accident, he'd been his family's main provider.

He'd never intended to be. Never wanted them to depend on him. His father had always been the provider, supplementing his usual income with his winnings from a street fighting club. Until he'd been injured in the fields. Unable to fight.

So Hogan had taken his place. His father had taught him everything he knew, and, soon, he was winning nearly every match. Bringing in even more money than his father head. They still weren't well off, but, along with their daily wages from the fields, it had always been enough to get by.

Until now.

Without him, what would they do? His father couldn't work. Weeden and Willow were eight and six – too young to be of much help, but old enough to eat their fair share. His mother worked hard, but, without him to help her, would she be able to get by?

No. No, she wouldn't have to. He would make sure of that. It was just another fight, in the end, and he'd won his fair share.

But he'd never killed.

Hogan shook the thought from his head. How much different could it be? Beating an opponent into submission or killing them – what was the difference, in the end? He'd always enjoyed the thrill of the fight. Wouldn't that rush be even stronger if his life was truly on the line?

But not just his life. The lives of his family. They were depending on him. And if he made it home, they'd never have to depend on anyone ever again.

Hogan fingered the coin in his hands – the coin he'd won in his very first match. Winners were rewarded with a large sum, while the loser only got one coin to show for his effort. He'd won one coin that night. But he'd kept it, as a reminder – a reminder of the only fight he'd ever lost.

Now it was a reminder that this one couldn't end the same way.

* * *

><p>"<em>Each voice enriches us and ennobles us, and each voice lost diminishes us."<em>


	12. District Eleven: Defined

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Thank you to _The Lunar Lioness_, _hollowman96_, and _BamItsTyler _for Lynher, Jazz, and Bakaari, respectively.

* * *

><p><strong>District Eleven Reaping<br>****Defined**

* * *

><p><strong>Elijah Whitaker, 17<br>****Victor of the 24****th**** Hunger Games**

He still wasn't used to seeing them happy.

Elijah smiled. Looking around the house, no one would have been able to guess that it was reaping day. His younger brothers and sisters – all four of them – were still stuffing their faces with a breakfast that would have been considered beyond compare only a year ago. The older three showed a little bit more restraint, as did his parents, but the fact remained that, a year after his own reaping, this was a day of gratitude rather than fear.

Like many large families in District Eleven, they had been on the brink of starvation a year ago, despite the five of them who had been eligible for the reaping taking out tesserae. A year ago, they had been living in a one-room shack, along with his four grandparents and several cousins. A year ago, he had been just another Whitaker boy. Just another mouth to feed.

Now they had everything they could want. Now they had a house that was large enough for all of them – and then some. Now they had enough food to last a lifetime. Now they would never have to work long hours in the fields again. The little ones would never have to beg again. The older ones would never have to go hungry so that the younger ones could have a scrap of bread. They had everything.

And he was responsible for it.

He had done this. Him. He had made this possible – his family's happiness.

And all it had cost was the lives of twenty-three other teenagers.

Elijah shook the thought from his head. Yes, he had killed. He was responsible for three of the dead. The boys from Three and Eight and the girl from Six. They were dead. He had killed them. But, if he hadn't, how many of his own siblings would be dead from hunger now?

Weren't their lives worth as much as those three?

Yes. Yes, it was worth it. Coming home, seeing them like this – well-fed, clean, happy – it was worth every second he had spent in the arena. He had done terrible things, but it was over. Their happiness, their joy – this would last a lifetime.

And they were grateful. To him. That had taken some getting used to. Not that they had ever intentionally ignored him, but, growing up in such a large family, it was easy to feel overlooked. Overshadowed. Unappreciated. Now when he looked in their eyes, he saw nothing but appreciation. Even pride.

And why not? He wasn't proud of the means, but he could be proud of the results. Maybe it was impossible to separate the two, in the end, but the one was certainly worth the other.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts – and breakfast. After knocking once more, Ivy entered uninvited. "Elijah, there you are! We should go soon." She was smiling – a rare thing, usually reserved for him. Her one success. The one tribute, after all these years, who had finally come home.

He would be lying if he said that didn't feel good.

They headed to the square together – his family and Ivy. In the last year, they'd sort of adopted her – the cranky aunt whom all the kids tried to warm up to, anyway. It had taken a while, but she had come around. She'd never had a family, something he'd always taken for granted. He was happy to share his.

They all took their places: Winnona and Bryden with his parents and the other adults, along with Hollie and Edsel, too young for the reaping; Aislinn with the eighteen-year-olds; Jaxon with the fifteen-year-olds, and Marion with the fourteen-year-olds. Elijah took his own place next to Ivy onstage, a wave of dread coursing through him at last. Not for himself, but for his family. For the three of them still in danger.

They had stopped taking tesserae, of course, after he won. They were as safe as they could get. It was Aislinn's last year. But still … it could be them. It could be any of them.

No one was really safe.

Elijah felt a hand on his shoulder. Ivy squeezed gently. Trying to be reassuring. But there was nothing she could do. Nothing either of them could do to protect his family. Nothing except try their hardest if the worst happened.

It wouldn't. There were hundreds – thousands – of other children. The odds were … well, low, certainly. Aislinn would know exactly what they were. Every year, she went through and calculated. Estimated. Determined exactly how bad their chances were.

Last year, she had been right.

But not this year. Not this year.

Elijah almost thought he saw a smile on Ivy's face as the mayor Mayor Haimish read their names. _Their _names. Two of them, for the first time. For the first time, she wouldn't be going back to the Capitol alone. She had warned him that it would be hard, of course, but she had also made it abundantly clear that she was grateful not to be alone.

Yet another person who was grateful to him.

District Eleven's escort, Merick Cason, grinned as he approached the reaping bowl. Elijah held his breath. _Not Aislinn. Not Jaxon. Not Marion. _Anyone else – _anyone _– and he would be … well, not _happy_, but certainly relieved.

_Not Aislinn. Not Jaxon. Not Marion._

"Bakaari Reeves!"

The seventeen-year-old section parted around a boy in a white t-shirt under a blue shirt, only partway buttoned, khakis, and a flat blue cap. He was tall and muscular, dark-skinned and hard-eyed, intimidating even from a distance. He was muttering under his breath as he made his way towards the stage.

But, before he made it there, a girl ran up out of the twelve-year-old section and threw her arms around him. Another followed, and then another – both from outside the reaping area. The Peacekeepers immediately intervened, tearing the girls away, but the boy fought back, not letting go of them until one of the Peacekeepers struck him in the temple. The Peacekeepers dragged him to the stage – his cap knocked off, his head bleeding – and shoved him down hard in front of Ivy and Elijah.

The boy quickly rose to his feet, and, for a moment, Elijah thought he might start fighting again. But, after collecting himself, he simply stood there, listening as the youngest girl continued to shout for him to come back.

Elijah fought back a sinking feeling in his stomach. Those girls – so much like his own little sisters. And the boy was his age. He wasn't Elijah's brother, but he was _somebody's _brother. He had people counting on him to come home, just as Elijah had.

But so many of the tributes did. And only one of them could come home.

Elijah turned his attention back to Merick as he reached into the reaping bowl again, undeterred by the boy's display. _Not Aislinn. Not Jaxon. Not Marion._

"Jazz Farnahm!"

The seventeen-year-old section parted again, this time for a girl in a white, short-sleeve, button-down shirt and black slacks. For a moment, the shock was obvious on her face, but, after a moment, her face hardened, and it was gone. She walked quickly to the stage – no younger siblings clinging to her, no fighting, no fuss.

She was almost as tall as the boy and almost as muscular, dark-skinned and dark-eyed, with her dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She took her place by her district partner, acknowledging neither him nor anyone else. Ivy nodded a little, which caught Elijah by surprise. Was this how she had been at her own reaping?

No. No, he'd almost forgotten: she had volunteered. She'd asked to be sent to the Games. To her possible death. No matter what front this girl was putting up, she didn't want to be here any more than he had. But did Ivy understand that?

Elijah shook the thought from his head. Of course she did. She'd been a mentor longer than he'd been alive; it wasn't his place to second-guess her. If she thought putting up a tough front would be good for the girl, then he would have her back.

She'd had his, after all.

Merick turned back to the reaping bowl. One more. One more name, and his family would be safe for another year – and Aislinn would be safe forever. One more. _Not Aislinn. Not Jaxon. Not Marion._

"Lynher Palmieri!"

It took all of Elijah's effort not to look relieved on his family's behalf. Aislinn was safe. He almost smiled.

Almost.

And, almost immediately, he scolded himself, because he realized the name was familiar.

The sixteen-year-old section parted for a boy in a grey shirt, black slacks, and well-worn shoes. A boy Elijah recognized from the fields. He was about average height, dark-skinned, with shaved black hair. He had a few muscles, but certainly nothing impressive compared to the other two. After staring in shock for a moment, he began walking slowly towards the stage.

As he passed the eighteen-year-old section, however, he stopped for a moment to whisper something to another boy, who nodded quickly. Before the Peacekeepers could step forward, however, the boy kept walking, his warm brown eyes full of tears as he finally took his place beside his two district partners. "Well, we've just got the best luck, don't we," he remarked – not out of bitterness, Elijah knew, but simply out of a need to say _something_.

The other two didn't acknowledge his remark, their expressions cold even when they were reminded to shake hands. They had already shut him out.

Of course they had. They were on their way to a fight to the death. But Elijah knew that wouldn't stop Lynher from trying to talk to them, trying to connect – if only for a little while. As the three of them were led away, Elijah gave Lynher what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Lynher smiled back shakily.

"You know him," Ivy remarked once they were gone.

Elijah nodded, though it hadn't been a question. "Not very well, but … yeah, we've met."

Ivy nodded understandingly. "It's never easy – knowing one of your tributes. I can take him, if you'd rather not deal with—"

Elijah shook his head. "No. No, I'll mentor him."

"Good choice," muttered a voice from behind him. The mayor, lingering onstage after everyone else had gone.

"Why?" Elijah asked. "You think he's got the best chance?"

"No, but he'll be less of a handful for your first year of mentoring. The girl's a bully – has two younger siblings she abuses to vent her frustration because she's terribly lonely. Wonder why. The boy's a bit better, but he's desperate – those girls at the reaping rely on him for everything, and he'll do whatever he thinks is necessary to get back to them. But that might not be what you think is the best way. The other boy, now, he'll listen to you. Maybe too much. Probably too much. But that's what you need for your first year, really – someone who'll get killed following your advice, so that next year you'll do better."

Elijah blinked. Ivy glared. "Really, Mycr? It's his first year. Play nice."

The mayor shrugged. "Why? The Gamemakers won't. They don't care that it's his first year. They won't go easy on a tribute just because his mentor's fresh out of the Games himself. Might as well accept that, kid."

Elijah flushed. No one had called him 'kid' since he'd won the Games last year. "I'm not a kid! I'm—"

"Elijah Whitaker, Victor of the 24th Annual Hunger Games. And congratulations for that. But that doesn't change the fact that you're still hungry – hungry for love and attention. You've got the appreciation, the respect, and you think that's enough, but it only makes you crave more."

"I don't need—"

"Anyone else's approval? Of course you do. We all do. We all need the audience, the spotlight, the applause. It's why we do what we do." He shook his head sadly. "Believe me, I know."

Ivy sighed. "Myrc, this isn't about your brother."

The mayor scoffed. "Of course it is. It always is." He shook his head. "Maybe it always was." He turned to go, but then remarked, quietly, "Maybe that's what he would have wanted."

Ivy shook her head, then turned to Elijah. "Don't mind him. He's always like that. Usually right, too, in the end, but it doesn't help to dwell on that ahead of time. You take Lynher; I'll take the other two."

"You sure?" She'd mentored two tributes by herself for more than twenty years; he had figured she might ask him to take two.

"I'm sure. It's your first year, and the first year is hard enough without having to worry about two tributes at once."

"You did it."

"I sure did. Which is why I know how hard it would be for you. I'll take the other two."

"Thank you."

Ivy put a hand on his shoulder. "No, thank _you_. For being here."

Elijah smiled a little. He hadn't done it for her, of course – no more than he had done it for the spotlight, the applause. Relieving her of the burden of mentoring alone hadn't even crossed his mind during the Games. But that didn't matter. He was here now.

And he wouldn't let her down.

* * *

><p><strong>Lynher Palmieri, 16<strong>

He hadn't expected Tamar to come.

Lynher could feel tears in his eyes once more. Tamar, his oldest brother, had left home a year ago and hadn't spoken to him – or anyone in their family – since. But he'd had to see him one last time. So, before joining the others onstage, Lynher had found Malvern in the crowd and asked him to find their brother – before it was too late.

Because, more likely than not, it _would_ be the last time he saw them. Not that he wouldn't try, of course. But even his two district partners were both older and stronger than him. And the other districts … no, he didn't even want to think about the other districts yet.

Some of them would be younger than him, of course. But that just made it even worse. Lynher swallowed hard, trying to picture the twelve- and thirteen-year-olds who might be his competition. Trying to imagine killing them. Even the thought made him sick to his stomach. He didn't want to kill little kids.

He didn't want to kill _anyone_.

"It's okay," he repeated again, hugging his mother tightly. "It's okay. It'll be okay." It was better than saying nothing. The silence – the pitying looks, the quiet sobbing – was unbearable. Words were better, even if they were lies.

And of course it was a lie. Either way, it would never be 'okay.' Dying wasn't _okay_. And killing wasn't _okay_. Nothing would ever be _okay_ again.

And yet … Elijah seemed to be doing okay. They'd worked in the fields together, before Elijah was reaped. They had never been close, but it was something. They had seen each other a few times since Elijah had returned, and, while he seemed different, he didn't seem … broken. Not like so many of the other victors.

And if Elijah could do it, maybe he could, too.

Lynher put on a smile for his family. "It's okay. You just watch. We'll be the second district with back-to-back victors."

His parents smiled. Malvern smiled. Even Tamar smiled. And that was worth the lie – if that was, in fact, what it turned out to be. Seeing his family like this – together again, the way they should be – it was almost worth being reaped. If this was what it took to bring them together again, maybe it was worth it.

And he wouldn't let them down.

* * *

><p><strong>Bakaari Reeves, 17<strong>

They still didn't want to let go.

Bakaari held his three little sisters close, wishing he had something comforting to say. Wishing he could say that he would be back, that he would be coming home soon, that he would win for them. Of course he would try, but there were no guarantees. He couldn't make that promise, only for them to have their hearts broken when he couldn't hold up his end of the bargain. It might make them feel better for a moment, but what about later?

He couldn't do that to them.

So he said nothing. But that was all right. Silence was better than a lie. Silence wasn't a promise – one way or the other. They all knew he would do his best, fight his hardest. It didn't need saying.

But something else did.

Gently, Bakaari freed himself from the girls' arms, then, one by one, looked them each in the eye. "I love you," he said softly to each of them in turn, wrapping each of the girls in one last hug. First Willow, the oldest. Then Piper. Then little Ivy, the youngest, only six years old. Then, quietly, deliberately, he opened the door himself and watched them leave.

He had realized, at the reaping, that he would want it to be that way. Wanted it to be his choice when to let them leave, rather than having them torn away again. He wanted to say goodbye on his own terms, to have this one last moment that was under his control.

Because so few things were. So few things had ever been. His father's death from malnutrition. His mother's slow wasting away from grief. Being unable to properly care for the three little girls who meant everything to him. But this – this last moment – this was his. He wouldn't let their last memories of him be of the Peacekeepers tearing them apart, kicking and screaming. If he could let go, then maybe they could, as well.

Bakaari clenched his fists tightly. He would do his best, of course, to see that they didn't have to. They had already been through so much. Already lost so much. They couldn't lose him, too. So he would fight. He would kill. Whatever he had to do, he would do – for them.

He wouldn't let them down.

* * *

><p><strong>Jazz Farnahm, 17<strong>

They hadn't come.

Jazz watched as her mother and father left, leaving the room bleak and empty. She kicked a chair in frustration. The little brats hadn't even come.

Jazz shook her head, scoffing at her own flash of sentimentality. Of course they hadn't come. Why would they? They were siblings, sure, but it wasn't as if they were close. As if she could ever be that close to an idiot and a sniveling weakling. They didn't care about her; they were scared of her. That had always been better. That was the way she wanted it.

But it still felt lonely.

Jazz sat down again, waiting in silence for the Peacekeepers to decide her time was over. Lonely was nothing new. Frustrated was nothing new. But she'd always had someone to take it out on. Someone at school, or one of her siblings at home. Usually Nuto.

Jazz scoffed. No wonder he hadn't come; she would probably have taken her frustration out on him again. And no wonder Rita hadn't come, when Jazz would probably have yelled at her, taking her anger out on the only person available.

No wonder they hadn't come.

Still, a part of her wished they had. Wished she could see them again. Wished she could say something. She wasn't even sure what, but for them to rob her of that, to scorn her now, to choose _now_ of all times to defy her by not coming – it was unthinkable.

Now there was no one.

But it wouldn't last long. Soon, she'd be surrounded by people again.

People who wanted to kill her.

No. No, most of them wouldn't _want_ to. Just like she didn't _want_ to kill them. Not really. Sure, she'd picked fights before, but actually _killing _someone? That was different. When she beat someone up, it was mostly for the pleasure of the fear in their eyes every time they saw her. The fear that said they knew she could do it again.

But the dead wouldn't look at her like that.

Jazz shook the thought from her head. No, she didn't _want_ to kill. But she would. She would have to. Maybe her life here wasn't great. Maybe it was nothing special. But it was hers. And she wasn't about to let that go without a fight.

She wouldn't let herself down.

* * *

><p>"<em>All sentient beings are best defined by their capacity and their need for love."<em>


	13. District Twelve: Brief

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Now that we've made it through the reapings, there's a poll on my profile where you can vote for your favorite tributes. Choose as many as you like, and feel free to vote for your own; just make sure to let me know who _else_ you like, too. (Because if, out of thirty-six tributes, the only one you like is your own, I'm doing something wrong.) This poll will be up until the end of the train rides, so if you'd like to wait until you see a little more of our tributes, that's perfectly fine, as well.

Also, now that you've met all the tributes, if you have any alliances in mind, let me know. I may not be able to accommodate everyone, but I'll try my best, especially if a request is mutual.

Lastly, thank you to _Starry Infinities_, _bobothebear_, and _Lupus Overkill _for Blythe, Brennan, and Francis, respectively.

* * *

><p><strong>District Twelve Reaping<br>****Brief**

* * *

><p><strong>Silas Grisom, 49<br>****Capitol Mentor**

No one ever saw their potential.

Silas leaned back in his chair onstage, taking in the sight that would move most people to either pity or disgust, either compassion or contempt. District Twelve. The smallest, poorest, victorless district. And yet so rich – rich in potential, rich in desperation, rich in character.

How could he refuse?

Several other people had, he knew. He hadn't been anyone's first choice for this position. A trial lawyer – however experienced – was hardly qualified to prepare children for a fight to the death. Over the years, they had passed him over – for soldiers, survival experts, strategists.

But he was patient. Now, finally, when all of their other options had failed – most resigning after a year, some lasting two – now they had turned to him.

And he wouldn't fail.

Oh, he might fail this year. Or the next. That was to be expected. In twenty-four years, only two mentors had brought home a tribute their very first year. And the first was a given; _someone _had to bring a tribute home the first year, and Adonias had been lucky enough to be mentoring Vester, the Capitol favorite. Then there was District Nine, the only district with back-to-back victors. But that had been due to Crispin's cleverness, certainly not Tobiah's mentoring skills.

So of course he would try, but he wasn't really expecting to succeed this year. But that wouldn't drive him away, as it had so many of the others. Silas was no stranger to failure. Winning or losing wasn't the point; the point was to put on a good show. As long as he did that, Silas was confident they would let him mentor District Twelve as long as he had the stomach for it.

And he had a strong stomach.

He had to, with everything he'd seen after the rebellion. The interrogations. The beatings. The torture. All part of the process of 'justice' in the Capitol – at least as far as rebels were concerned. And, at first, that was exactly what most of his clients had been. The trials were mostly for show – if the Capitol wanted someone executed, that's exactly what they would get – but, occasionally, he was able to do some good. Occasionally, the Capitol would agree to pardon the criminals' families – particularly their children – if they would confess their crimes, denounce their actions, perhaps name a few of their associates.

That was how he had saved the Ichihara children all those years ago. A boy and a girl, destined to pay the price for their parents' actions – until he had stepped in, convinced those in power to let him offer a deal. The parents had cracked immediately at the offer of their children's safety, and had given the names of several other key rebels in District Seven. All to save the lives of a girl who had already gone mad from the Capitol's torture and a boy who would meet his fate, anyway, in the Games. He hadn't saved the boy; he had only postponed the inevitable for ten years.

But those were ten years that Kaji Ichihara wouldn't have had without him.

Besides, that was all that anyone was doing, in the end: postponing the inevitable. Even in the Capitol, with all their obsession with youth and good looks, the best surgeons and magicians had yet to find a permanent cure for death. They could delay it. They could make it painless. But, in the end, death always had its say.

Always.

Maybe that was life's greatest lesson, in the end: that, no matter how hard anyone tried – no matter how strong or how intelligent or how brave they were – eventually they lost. The sooner people recognized that, the more they could make of the little, fleeting time they had left. The more they could focus on creating something that _would_ last.

That was why he was here, after all. Why he hadn't been able to turn down the chance to mentor the only victorless district. For the past twenty-five years, he'd made a name for himself as a lawyer who was willing to take any case. Willing to defend anyone, no matter how heinous. He'd lost more cases than he'd won, sacrificed more lives than he'd saved, but he'd been part of history.

And that's what the Games were: a chance to be part of history. To be part of something bigger. To tell a story, put on a show, to change lives forever.

They didn't understand that here in Twelve – or in most of the districts. Didn't understand that it was all about the show. Even in One, Two, and Four, the focus was on training – on weapons and skills and strength. And training was helpful, of course – the last four Games had proven that. But, on its own, it wasn't enough.

It didn't matter that Twelve was the poorest district. It didn't matter that their tributes weren't trained. Didn't matter if they were young, weak, skinny. As long as they put on a good show, they had a chance. And the Capitol had finally realized it. District Twelve didn't need a soldier. They didn't need an expert strategist. They needed a showman.

And now they had him.

The crowd shifted uneasily as District Twelve's escort, Lontae Hesperion, took her place. Silas gave her a smile and a little wave. She glared back. To her, he was just another idiot who thought that he could succeed where everyone else had failed. Another mentor who would be gone in a year or two. Another in a long line of failures.

Silas shrugged and turned his attention back to the crowd. It didn't matter what she thought. Or what any of them thought. The only people in the crowd who mattered were the three tributes whose names he didn't even know yet. The three teenagers who would step forward any moment now, shaking and terrified, into the spotlight. The three children who, after this moment, would no longer be children, but names that would be part of history.

"Blythe Ayers!"

The fourteen-year-old section parted, revealing a girl who looked even younger. She stood there, staring, horrified, helpless in the face of her worst nightmare, come to life. Then she began to cry. One of the girls near her whispered something. She shook her head, frantic, desperate.

Then the Peacekeepers stepped in. One of them made a move to grab her, but, before he could, she took off sprinting – towards the stage. Maybe hoping to earn back some of her lost image by at least making it to the stage under her own power, rather than being dragged to her death. She hurried up the stairs, her face turned away from the cameras, trying to hide her tears.

But she couldn't hide them from him.

But tears were nothing new to him. Nor did it matter to him that she was still shaking, still sobbing despite her efforts to stop. First impressions didn't matter. He was in this for the long run.

So Silas looked past the tears and studied her carefully. She was short – five feet at the most – and thin. Not as thin as some, though she was paler than most. Her wavy, light blonde hair was choppily cut around her shoulders. She was wearing a blouse that had probably been white at one point, but was now stained with the dirt that seemed to coat the district itself. She wore a red and green tartan skirt and brown ankle boots. Her eyes, a soft blue-grey, found his, begging, pleading for him to do something. To save her.

Silas flashed her a smile and nodded towards the cameras. _Face the audience. Use the spotlight. _The girl turned back towards the crowd, no longer sobbing quite so hard, but her gaze fixed firmly on the ground. Silas turned his own smile towards the cameras, looking as confident as he could in his new tribute as Lontae reached into the bowl again.

"Brennan Aldaine!"

The fifteen-year-old section parted around a boy who, for a moment, looked as though he might run. His whole body was tense, his eyes wide, his face pale. But, when he finally took his first trembling step, it was towards the stage, not away form it. One step followed another – shaky and slow, but consistent.

Like the girl, there wasn't anything particularly special about his appearance. Average height, average build, not quite as pale as the girl. Tousled brown hair and gentle brown eyes that were struggling to hold back tears. He was wearing a blue button-down shirt and khakis. Looking closer, Silas noticed a watch – an old watch, perhaps a family keepsake. Sentimental.

_Not that that's a surprise. _Silas watched as the boy took his place by his new district partner, managing a small nod. She stared back at him, terrified, but, in that moment, the terror united them, and he reached for her hand. She gripped it tightly, clinging to it as if it were a lifeline. The two of them glanced over at Lontae, waiting for the third name.

"Francis Cooper!"

The seventeen-year-old section parted around a boy who immediately looked much older than his two district partners. There was no hesitation, no shock before he started walking towards the stage. There was fear in his eyes, but no tears. A distant fear of the future rather than the panic of the here and now. Already thinking ahead. Already looking towards what was to come.

He was taller than the other two – a little tall even for his own age, and rather lanky. He was pale, with dark reddish-brown hair and dark brown eyes. A strong, angled jaw and a slightly upturned nose. He wore a blue collared shirt, brown dress pants, and a well-worn black jacket.

Instead of stopping beside his district partners, however, the boy hesitantly approached Lontae. "May I…?" he asked, gesturing towards the microphone.

Lontae blinked, confused, but Silas nodded emphatically, and Lontae stepped aside. The boy looked out at the crowd. "I just wanted to say … thank you to our district, for the time we've had here. And we promise that…" his voice faltered, unsure. Promise what? That one of them would come back? That this year, somehow, would be they year that everything changed. The boy glanced at his two district partners, who were watching, as surprised as anyone else.

"That we'll make you proud," the boy decided at last, stepping back from the microphone and shaking the other boy's hand, then the girl's. Last, the two younger tributes shook hands.

Silas nodded, satisfied, as the three of them were led away. They had potential – all three of them. More than their district knew. More than _they _knew.

"Pretty speech," Lontae commented wryly as she and Silas headed off towards the train. "Won't help them much once they're in the arena."

Silas shrugged. "You'd be surprised. It's amazing what a difference the little things can make. Everyone wants to focus on the big picture – the training, the alliances, the strategy. No one ever pays attention to details. But the big picture is made up of details. You have to be able to see the trees as well as the forest.

Lontae shook her head. "There is no forest. There are no trees. There is no big picture – not here. There's just days, and then hours, and then minutes, until all three of them are dead – and there's nothing you can do to stop it."

Silas shrugged. "Who said anything about stopping it? No one can stop it. We've all got years, then days, then hours, then minutes – it's just a matter of how many, and how long we can postpone what's coming for us all, in the end. That's life – and the Games are no different. There's only one winner, and most of the audience has it all wrong. The winner isn't one of the tributes. The winner isn't the person who lives the longest, who survives to face death at some later time." He grinned, clapping Lontae on the back.

"The winner is Death."

* * *

><p><strong>Blythe Ayers, 14<strong>

They couldn't go yet.

Blythe couldn't hold back another wave of sobbing as the Peacekeeper knocked on the door, signaling that their time was over. At least here, cradled in her parents' arms, with her younger siblings nearby – here, she felt a little safer than she had onstage. There, she had been alone. Exposed. Helpless.

But the truth was that she wasn't any safer here. If anything, those extra minutes only meant that she was that much closer to the inevitable. That much closer to the Games, to the arena.

To death.

Blythe buried her face in her mother's shirt. She didn't want to go. She didn't want them to go. There was so much she hadn't said. So much she hadn't done. This couldn't end yet.

The Peacekeeper knocked again, then opened the door. Several of them stepped in, ready to drag her family away from her. Blythe clung to her mother, but a Peacekeeper's arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her away. Another took her mother and father by the arm and yanked them roughly out the door. A third lifted Iona, the youngest, who was clinging to Blythe, and tore her away. The other four – Joran, Milo, Rae, and Kellin – were quickly taken away, as well, leaving Blythe alone, calling for them, calling that she loved them, that she would try to come home, that she wanted nothing more in the world than to see them again, just for a moment.

Still sobbing, Blythe buried her face in her hands, even though there was no one else there to see. Soon, they would all see. The whole Capitol would see her, and what would they see? Another weak, crying girl from District Twelve. Another helpless tribute for the bloodbath. Another quick death.

Blythe finally drew her hands away from her face, her fists clenched. No. She didn't want that. She didn't want to _be_ that. All her life, she had told herself she wouldn't be just another number. Just another poor citizen, struggling from day to day, working half to death just so death wouldn't come from starvation, instead. She'd always wanted to be something more. Something better.

Something greater.

Maybe this was her chance. It was a small chance, but a small chance was better than none. It was something to hold onto. Something to hope for.

Something to live for.

* * *

><p><strong>Brennan Aldaine, 15<strong>

He couldn't go yet.

Brennan took a deep breath, fighting back tears. It had taken all of his control not to fight, not to cry and scream, as the Peacekeepers led his parents away. That wasn't how he wanted them to remember him – as a crying, screaming child. He wanted to be calm. He wanted to be strong.

But how long could it last?

The door opened again, and Olivia stepped in, quiet, hesitant. Brennan bit his lip. He wanted to say something. He wanted to say _everything._ How frightened he was, how much he wished things could be different, how much he hoped he would see her again. But it was better to let her speak first. Let her get it all out.

Then maybe he could, too.

For a moment, the two of them sat in silence. "I'm so sorry," Olivia said at last. "I wish…"

She stopped there. What could they wish for? That his name hadn't been drawn? That they could turn back time, stir the slips again, and the escort would pick someone else? A silly wish. A childish wish. And he didn't want to be remembered as a child.

He'd always wanted to be remembered for something. Something good, something useful, something that would make District Twelve – or even Panem itself – a little better. But how could he do that in the Games? How could he hold onto that dream, when, by definition, the Games made everything – and every_one_ – worse?

He didn't want to be part of that. He didn't want to _be_ that. He didn't want to be just another tribute, just another life destroyed by the Games. He wanted – he had _always _wanted – so much more.

"I wish I didn't have to go," he finished for her. That was what it came down to, in the end: He didn't want to leave. He didn't want to leave her, or his family, or the district he loved. But, in the end, he had to. And the only way he was ever going to see them again – the only way he was ever going to come home – was if he accepted that, first, he had to leave.

All too soon, the Peacekeepers came to take Olivia away. But, just before she left, Olivia slipped her locket into his hand. Nodding, he took off his watch – the watch his grandfather had given him before he died three years ago – and handed it to her. "I'll be back for this." It wasn't much of a promise, but it was something to hold onto. Something to hope for.

Something to live for.

* * *

><p><strong>Francis Cooper, 17<strong>

He had to go now.

Francis shook his head as he watched his parents leave. His brother Arnold hung back for a moment, and the two embraced. But then Arnold had to go. And soon he would have to go, too.

But part of him was already gone. Part of him had already left District Twelve, the moment the escort had called his name. Part of his mind was already in the Games, already thinking through scenarios, already considering the worst: that he might not be coming home.

But was that the worst? Was that really the worst that could happen? District Twelve didn't have any victors of its own, but he saw them every year on the screen. So many of them were broken. So many of them were miserable. He didn't want to live like that. He didn't want to _be_ that.

But he _did_ want to live.

There was so much to live for, now that he really thought it through. Maybe District Twelve wasn't the best place to live. Maybe it was the poorest district. The smallest district. Maybe there weren't a lot of opportunities here. But he had his family, his friends, his _life_ here. He wasn't ready to let all of that go.

Francis took a deep breath. There was no reason to let it go just yet. No reason to just give up. He had a chance. Maybe not the best chance, but, with no volunteers from the Career districts, it was a better chance than normal. At least, he hoped it was. Hoped that would be enough to give him a fair chance.

A fair chance at killing. A fair chance at fighting another teenager, at seeing the life drain out of their eyes, at having their blood on his hands. What sort of a chance was that? Was it a chance he could live with?

Francis shook his head. It was a chance he would _have_ to live with, if he was going to come home. Maybe he didn't have to let go of his hope, but there was something he _did_ have to let go of: the foolish idea that victory could come without a price, without memories that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

But it was worth it, because that was the only way he would _have_ the rest of his life. That was the only way he would _have_ something to hold onto. Something to hope for.

Something to live for.

* * *

><p>"<em>It's all so brief, isn't it? ... It wouldn't be so bad if life didn't take so long to figure out. Seems you just start to get it right, and then … it's over."<em>


	14. Train Rides: Blind Comfort

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **And here we have our first Train Rides chapter. Despite starting with District One, you'll probably quickly notice that we're not going in order. Districts were grouped by which ones fit well with a particular theme. There will be four train ride chapters, with three districts per chapter.

Also, each district's section is told from one tribute's point of view. This does not mean that I like that particular tribute better or anything like that – just that their point of view worked better for this particular chapter.

* * *

><p><strong>Train Rides Part One<br>****Blind Comfort**

* * *

><p><strong>Henri Saunders, 18<br>****District One**

They were monsters.

Henri watched, disgusted, as their three mentors crowded around the screen to watch the other reapings. Elaine hesitantly took a seat on the floor by Stellar. Daedem stood a little ways away, arms crossed. Henri sat at the table, watching from a distance.

She wanted no part of this. It was terrible – analyzing other teenagers as they were called to their deaths. Pretending that would give them some insight into the competition, when, really, they probably just enjoyed it. After all, just because someone was crying at the reaping didn't mean they were weak. Didn't mean that they wouldn't make it just as far as anyone else in the Games.

Did it?

Henri shook the thought from her head. The other two were the weak ones, not her. Weak for pretending to go along with their mentors, pretending to enjoy this, pretending that there was nothing wrong with any of it. Nothing wrong with the thirty-six of them being sent to their deaths for the enjoyment of the Capitol. Nothing wrong with the Games.

Their own reaping played first. She heard Daedem shouting. Saw herself crying. Saw Elaine try to run. And yet the mentors still watched, undeterred, claiming to be looking for strong, capable allies when the truth was that no one strong, capable, and prepared for the Games would want to ally with the three of them in the first place. Jade, Stellar, and Scarlet were treating them like Careers. But the three of them weren't Careers.

They weren't monsters.

So instead of looking for strength and capability, Henri studied the screen, watching for glimpses of humanity. Tears. Fear. Anything that would reassure her that, yes, some of the other tributes were human. Some of them could be trusted.

Some of them might actually _want_ to be her ally.

District Two looked fairly confident and certainly more prepared than them, but District Three had a skittish little boy who wouldn't even look at the cameras. A boy from Four hugged a few of his friends before taking the stage. A girl from Five couldn't hide a few tears before she collected herself and started blowing kisses, instead. One of the girls from Seven was crying, as was a little boy from Eight. The boy from Nine tried to comfort one of the girls who was crying; so did the boy from Twelve.

It was nice to see some humanity.

Henri turned her attention back to the food in front of her and resumed ignoring the others, who were now chatting about strategy and potential allies. Eventually, Scarlet pulled Daedem aside into one of the other rooms to speak with him privately, and Stellar did the same with Elaine.

Only then did Jade plop down across the table from her. "I know you were watching."

Henri glanced up. "What?"

"The reapings. You were pretending not to, but I caught you glancing over at us. So what did you think, Molly?"

"It's Henri."

"Henri?"

Henri glared; he could at least bother to learn her name before trying to talk to her. "Short for Henrietta. It's my middle name."

Jade nodded. "Pleased to meet you, Henri. I'm Jade."

"I know."

Jade smirked. "I see. And what else do you know about me?"

"I know you run the Career Academy with your wife, and the two of you train kids to die."

That caught him off guard. But, after a moment, his smile returned. "I see. You … disapprove?"

"Yes."

"Might I ask why?"

_Why? _He had to ask _why_ she didn't approve of training children to fight, to kill, to die for the pleasure of the Capitol?

"Nobody's forced to be there, Henri," he pointed out when she didn't answer. "Those students we're training – they want to be there. They _choose_ to be there. If it weren't for our academy, they'd still train on their own, like I did – just not as well, and they wouldn't be as prepared. Isn't it better for them to be as ready as possible?"

"As _ruthless_ as possible," Henri corrected.

"Fair enough," Jade agreed. "But few people ever win the Games without being ruthless. If that's what you're planning, you're going to have a hard time of it."

Henri glared. "Then I'll have a hard time. It's worth it to have a clear conscience."

Jade smiled a little. "Don't kid yourself, Henri. Even the victors who weren't ruthless killers don't have clear consciences. Only one tribute ever made it out of the arena without killing, and that would never have happened with our current Head Gamemaker – and certainly not during a Quarter Quell. He was lucky, but you can't count on the same thing."

Henri looked away. "Well, I suppose if I was attacked, I might be able to…" She trailed off. Did she really believe that? Was killing any different if she was attacked first? Did that change the fact that she would be taking a life?

Jade nodded. "That's a start. We can work with that."

"I don't _want_ to work with you."

Jade shrugged. "Well, if you'd rather have Stellar or Scarlet, I could still ask—"

"I don't want to work with _any_ of you!"

Jade sighed. "Okay, so you don't like the Games. You don't want to be here. I get that – I really do. That's one of the reasons it's good that our training academy exists. Any other year, you wouldn't be here. Someone would have volunteered. Someone would have saved your ungrateful life."

Henri opened her mouth to argue, but Jade cut her off. "You don't like me? Fine. I get that, too. From what you know about me, you probably think I'm a cold, heartless monster." He shook his head. "You know about Stellar, yes, but did you know that we have two kids? Did you know that after the training center closes for the day, we both go home to a family we love more than anything? Did you know that, sometimes, we'll pack a picnic dinner, watch the sun set over the mountains together, and wait for the first stars to come out?" He smiled a little, shaking his head.

"Hardly the description of a monster."

* * *

><p><strong>Niles Avdeyev, 16<br>****District Five**

Harakuise was a monster.

Niles stormed off to a room of his own as soon as they were on the train. He didn't want to be anywhere near Harakuise. He didn't even want to be on the same _train _as him, but that couldn't be helped.

Niles punched the wall. It was bad enough that he was on his way to the Games – and probably to his death – but to have to spend his last few days before going into the arena in the company of the man who had arranged for his family's execution was beyond cruel.

No, not a man. A monster.

And the others – Tania and Sabine – they were almost as bad. How could they stand by and do nothing while his family was murdered? Their silence made them no better; they may as well have openly agreed with what Harakuise had done.

Then again, they sat back and watched every year while twenty-three children were murdered, so why should he expect them to treat his family any differently? They were frightened – too frightened to do anything – just like the rest of the district. A district of cowards and weaklings, just like all the other districts – or, at least, just like the ones that weren't even worse.

"Niles?"

The door opened, and Tania stepped inside. Niles looked away. He didn't want to talk to her. He didn't want to talk to anyone. He just wanted his family, but, if he couldn't have them – if Tania was right about him being doomed – then he just wanted it over with as quickly as possible.

He certainly didn't want to listen to anything that she had to say. She hadn't done anything. Harakuise had told her he was going to kill Niles' family, and she had done nothing. She was just going to stand by and let him do it.

That made her just as bad.

"I brought you some food," Tania offered. "I figured you might not want to eat with—"

"With a monster?" Niles finished. "With the murdering scum who's going to kill my family as soon as I'm gone? No, I don't want to eat with him. In fact, if I see him again, you may have to stop me from killing him."

Tania sighed heavily. "You'll probably have to get in line." Niles cocked an eyebrow, and Tania smiled a little. "Oh, there isn't exactly a shortage of people who want him dead. There are a lot of people in the district who would be on your family's side if they weren't so afraid of retaliation. Harakuise has his share of enemies."

Niles studied her for a moment. "But you're not one of them. Why?"

Tania hesitated, a bit taken aback. "I…" She thought for a moment before continuing. "I knew him before the Games. I was his mentor, but, believe me, I didn't want to be. He was cold, calculating … but he was also cruel. Sadistic. He enjoyed the idea of killing. He was looking forward to it."

"Some things don't change," Niles scoffed.

Tania shook her head. "Actually, they do. The Games changed him, Niles, and, unlike so many of us victors, they changed _him_ for the better. Don't get me wrong; he's still cold. Still ruthless. But what he does, he doesn't do for fun. He doesn't do it because he enjoys it. He does it because, for whatever twisted reason, he believes it's right."

Niles scowled. "So I'm supposed to be grateful that he's not as bad as he used to be?"

"No. I don't expect you to be grateful. I don't expect you to be happy. I wouldn't be, either. But you asked why I don't want to kill him. Why I don't consider myself his enemy. More often than not, I disagree with him, but that doesn't make him a monster."

"Maybe not. But killing my family does."

"Niles, I didn't come to argue with you."

"Then why _did_ you come?"

Tania's gaze fell to the floor. "I came to ask you not to kill him."

Niles almost laughed. "What?"

"You heard me. He's not an idiot, Niles; he told me you'd make an attempt, sooner or later. I'm here to ask you not to – for your sake."

Niles shook his head. The thought _had_ crossed his mind. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't. If what you said before is true – if I'm as good as dead – then what do I have to lose?"

"More than you know. I've been talking to him, Niles, and he's dead set on your father's execution … but I think I might be able to convince him to spare your siblings. Or at least your little sister. Believe it or not, he has a soft spot for children. We can claim your father was influencing them – that, with the proper reeducation, they'll no longer be a danger."

"Reeducation," Niles repeated. "Capitol brainwashing. Force-fed propaganda, exaggerations, and lies. You think I want that for them?"

"Is it better or worse than death?"

"Worse! Better to die for what we believe in than to live like you – too afraid to stand up for anything! And if they were here, they'd say the same thing."

Tania sighed. "Maybe they would. Maybe I'm wasting my time. But I figured it was worth a try, so I made the effort. But that effort is for nothing if you kill him – or even if you try. The order has already been given; he's the only one who can change that. Just let me try, and don't do anything reckless."

"You expect me to trust you?"

Tania shook her head. "Not for a moment. But I do hope that you'll listen to me, for your family's sake." She turned to go, leaving a tray of food on a table nearby. "Think about it, Niles."

"I will," he promised.

And he would. He would think about nothing else, until he had accomplished his goal. A goal that was worth his own life. Worth even the lives of his siblings. Destroying a monster, ridding District Five of his influence for good – that was worth the price. So, silently, he swore that, one way or another, he would find a way to do it.

He would find a way to kill Harakuise.

* * *

><p><strong>Enzo Farnese, 12<br>****District Eight**

He didn't want to be a monster.

Enzo tucked his knees to his chest and sank back as far as he could into the soft cushions of a chair that was far too big for him. He and the others formed a circle – Shilo on his left, Janardan on his right, and Carolina and Lander seated on the couch across from him. Enzo looked away.

Lander leaned back, legs crossed, hands tucked behind his head. "All right, might as well get this out of the way first: Anyone want to be mentored separately?" After a moment of silence, he seemed to assume the answer was no. "Good choice. None of you three looks like you'd have the stomach to kill each other, anyway, so we might as well plan together – at least initially." He turned to the older boy. "So, Janardan, let's start with you. What should we know?"

"Know?"

Carolina nodded. "If we're going to help you, the more we know about you, the better. But if you don't want to tell us right away, that's fine."

The boy shrugged. "Well, for starters, most people call me Fletcher. I'm a—"

"Pickpocket?" Shilo finished.

Fletcher cocked an eyebrow. "What makes you say that?"

"You stuffed three spoons in your pocket while we were eating. And you were eyeing the candlesticks."

Fletcher grinned. "Can you blame me? They're worth a fortune."

"Yeah, but you wouldn't be able to sell them at the training center or anything. Which means you did it out of habit – unless you're planning to use one of them as your district token."

Fletcher chuckled. "Not a bad idea. And what about you – some sort of scientist or detective or something?"

Shilo shrugged. "Just observant. Actually, I'm a model."

Fletcher looked her over once. "A model?"

Shilo giggled. "Clearly, you don't follow fashion."

"Only what's worth stealing. So unless you're modeling rings or jewelery—"

"Dresses, mostly. Eight is the textile district, in case you'd forgotten."

"Well, it _is _a bit hard to keep track," Fletcher admitted. "There are twelve of them, after all."

"Yeah, but you only live in one."

Fletcher smirked. "Do I, now?"

That caught Lander's attention. "You've been outside District Eight?"

Fletcher shook his head. "Of course not; I was just teasing. How about you, Enzo? Anything special we should know?"

Enzo froze. What was he supposed to say? He wasn't a thief. He wasn't a model. He wasn't famous or talented or special. He was just a kid.

And, until now, that had always been enough.

"I…" What did they need to know? "I'm scared."

"Lander scoffed. "You don't say."

Carolina shushed him. "What are you scared of, Enzo?"

"Dying?" Lander offered, earning an elbow in the stomach from Carolina.

"Well, yes," Enzo admitted. "But also … I'm scared of doing what you did. Of killing. I … I don't want to be a monster."

Lander's gaze softened a little. "Now, who does that remind me of?"

Carolina leaned forward. "I said the same thing, Enzo, the first time I was on this train. I didn't want to die, but I also didn't want to end up like … well, like Lander."

"And did you?"

"In some ways," Care admitted. "Once you're in the Games, Enzo … everyone does terrible things. Things they regret."

"What did you do?" Shilo asked. Enzo didn't want to admit it, but he was curious, as well. Carolina's Games had been before he was born; he had no memory of her victory, or what she had done. He only knew that, somehow, she had lost an eye – an eye that the Capitol had replaced with the red, mechanical one that was now studying him, bright and fierce, a strange contrast with the rest of her appearance.

Carolina shook her head sadly. "I abandoned my allies. Two younger tributes I had told myself I was going to protect. I cared for them, but, when it came down to it, I valued my own life more. We were running away from a mutt, and I … I shoved Maeren down in its path. Koray went back for her, and I … I just ran away."

Shilo stared, horrified, until Lander cut in. "I killed my district partner," he offered. "We were down to the final five and running away from the other group of tributes. She tripped and fell in some quicksand, and, instead of trying to save her, I buried a knife in her chest."

"That's terrible," Enzo said before he could stop the words from leaving his mouth.

Lander nodded. "Yes, it is. Everything in the Games is terrible, and the sooner you accept that, the better. No matter how hard you try, a part of you gets left in the Games."

"Sometimes quite literally," Carolina nodded, winking her mechanical eye. Enzo looked away.

Lander shrugged. "I was going for a metaphor, but, yeah, that, too." He wiggled the fingers on his left hand, which, now that Enzo looked closer, had a bit of a robotic look to them. Enzo shrank away.

Carolina's smile faded. "I'm sorry. If it bothers you, I can—"

"If it bothers him, he can learn to deal with it," Lander pointed out. "He'll have to deal with a lot worse in the arena."

Carolina shrugged. "Still, no reason why that should start now." She reached for the bag beside her and dug around a little inside it.

"Looking for this?" Fletcher asked, holding up a glass jar.

Carolina grinned as he tossed it to her. "I don't even want to know what you were planning to do with that." She carefully removed the mechanical eye, slipped it into the jar, then covered the empty socket with an eye patch. "Better?"

Enzo nodded. It was a little better. A little less intimidating. But the eye patch – and the empty socket beneath it – was still a reminder of what she had lost. And what she had become.

"Not everyone loses an eye or a hand," Lander pointed out. "But each of you is going to lose something. And two of you, at least, are going to lose your lives. You can hide that for a while – you can cover it up – but you can't ignore it forever. Sometimes it's better to just face it."

Enzo closed his eyes. He didn't want to face it. He didn't want to see what he would have to become in order to win, because, the more he thought about it, the more certain he was that he could never do what they had done. Not simply that he didn't _want_ to – although that was certainly true, as well – but that he _couldn't_.

He couldn't do it.

* * *

><p>"<em>You and the rest of your kind take blind comfort in the belief that we are monsters, that you could never do what we did."<em>


	15. Train Rides: Enlightened Self-Interest

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Just a friendly reminder to PM me if you have any alliances in mind. We're seeing the start of a few this chapter, but there are still plenty left to be decided.

* * *

><p><strong>Train Rides Part Two<br>****Enlightened Self-Interest**

* * *

><p><strong>Dewan Rutledge, 15<br>****District Two**

Mortimer was silent as they watched the reapings.

Dewan did his best to stay still and silent until his mentor said something. Maybe it was some sort of District Two ritual not to discuss the competition until they'd seen all of the other tributes. Maybe that was an unspoken part of Career-district thinking that they'd never covered in training.

Or maybe he'd missed that day.

So he tried to pay attention to the reapings, but, after District Five or so, the faces started to blur together. There were just _so many _of them. How was he supposed to analyze all of them from just a few moments on the screen? Wouldn't it be better to just wait until he actually met them?

Then again, that would probably be a poor use of training time – running around and scrutinizing the other tributes, looking for weaknesses. Time he could be spending trying to brush up his skills, trying to remember lessons from years ago, before he'd decided that training was too much of a bother.

Now he almost wished he'd put in the effort to keep training.

Clearly, Mortimer wished the same thing. He'd been scowling since they'd gotten on the train, and had only softened up when Talitha had suggested that they watch the reapings together. Vester had reluctantly agreed and retreated to a sofa in the corner, watching the five of them from a distance. Adrian and Simone were watching the screen intently, soaking everything in.

Mortimer probably wished he was working with one of them, instead.

At last, District Twelve finished, and the screen switched off. Mortimer slowly stood up. "All right, Dewan, come with me."

That caught Dewan off-guard. He'd assumed that the three of them would be working together – or at least planning together. Was Mortimer that convinced that he couldn't hold his own with his older district partners? Reluctantly, he followed his mentor to the next car.

Mortimer closed the door and took a seat, gesturing for Dewan to do the same. Then he leaned forward a little, hands folded. "All right, Dewan, let's be perfectly honest. I wish you weren't here. I wish I had a different tribute. Not one of the other two, mind you – out of the three of you, you were my first choice."

"Really?" Dewan asked, shocked – and prouder than he wanted to admit. Mortimer had wanted _him_? Even though he'd dropped out of the academy? Even though he was the youngest? _He_ had been Mortimer's first choice?"

Mortimer nodded. "Really. But only out of you three. I'd rather have a proper Career to work with – someone who trained as more than a fad, someone a bit older, someone more ready."

Dewan nodded. "I understand. I wish you had someone else, too – because then I wouldn't be here."

Mortimer finally cracked a smile. "Fair enough. But, seeing as you're what I've got to work with, I'm certainly going to give it my best shot. Not just for you, but for our district. Training gives us an edge, yes, but this is our chance to prove that we can still win without it. Do you understand that?"

Dewan nodded. He was more interested in saving his own life than in bringing honor to District Two, of course, but now the two sort of went hand in hand.

"Good," Mortimer said. "Now, down to business. I don't want you working with the other two. You're not fully trained, and the other mentors know it. But you don't want your allies to. Put on a good enough show during training, and the other tributes will believe you're a full-fledged Career – a young one, perhaps, but trained. Most of them won't be. District One certainly isn't. Your two district partners aren't. One of the girls from Four might be, but that's it. As far as the rest of the tributes are concerned, the little training you've had makes you more prepared than most of them combined."

"What does that mean as far as allies?" Dewan asked, hoping that was the right question.

"I doubt there will be a Career pack, for starters," Mortimer offered. "At least, not in any usual sense of the word. "So form your own. The size of it doesn't really matter – what matters is that you look for tributes who are at your level – or who can at least pretend that they are. You're looking for the actors. The pretenders. The ones who won't care if most of your talent is just a show, because theirs is, too."

"Who would you suggest?"

Mortimer shrugged. "Impossible to tell from just a reaping. Keeping up an act for a few minutes is one thing; maintaining it during the entire training time, and at least a good portion of the Games – that's different."

"So then why did we even watch the reapings?"

Mortimer chuckled. "Tradition, mostly. And reapings can tell you a few things – ages, for starters. Sometimes you'll get an older batch, sometimes a younger one. This year is right about average. You're right in the middle, which isn't surprising. Look for allies around the same age as you – maybe a little older. But never rule out anyone based on age alone. We've had three victors younger than you, and four your age."

"Hazel, Harakuise, and Miriam were younger. Talitha, Mags, Crispin, and … who else was fifteen?"

Mortimer smirked. "Glenn. Not sure we should count him, really, but he's alive, so I suppose that makes him a victor. That's pretty impressive, by the way."

Dewan shrugged. He'd never really wanted to volunteer for the Games, himself, but they were still a part of what District Two stood for, what they were proud of. Since Mortimer was already impressed, he decided to try his luck. "Not as impressive as having the highest kill total in the history of the Hunger Games."

Mortimer chuckled. "If you're trying to flatter me … it's working."

Dewan grinned. "Good."

"You've got a shot at breaking that, though," Mortimer pointed out. "More tributes means more kills. Ten in a regular year is almost half. Half here would be eighteen – you could completely destroy my record."

Dewan hesitated. Eighteen. He couldn't imagine killing eighteen people. Or ten. He had a hard time picturing himself killing one. But he couldn't let Mortimer know that. "That sounds … good."

Mortimer shook his head. "You're not fooling me. If you were after records or glory, you never would have quit training. You don't want to kill." He shrugged. "But that doesn't mean you can't or won't. Anyone can kill when their life is on the line. You won't enjoy it, but I think you have it in you to be able to live with yourself afterwards."

Dewan hoped he was right.

* * *

><p><strong>Cassandra Sake, 17<br>****District Six**

Vernon was completely ignoring them.

Cassandra clenched her fists. She wanted to hate him. She wanted to march right over to where Vernon and Luke were sitting at the table and give them both a well-needed punch in the face. Wanted to scream, to remind them that there were two other tributes who needed a mentor.

But the worst part was that she understood. They hadn't said anything about their relationship, but it was pretty obvious. And it made sense that he would want to save his son. If she was in Luke's place, she would probably be doing the same thing, and would be hurt and insulted if her father took time away from her life to help the other tributes.

It wasn't Vernon's fault he was the only mentor available. And it certainly wasn't Luke's fault that he'd been picked. It wasn't anybody's fault. There was no one for her to blame.

That just made it even worse.

She wanted to blame _someone_. She wanted to hate _someone. _But how was she supposed to hate a father for caring for his son, or a son for relying on his father?

"You look distressed," Ryzer remarked, startling Cassandra. The girl's voice was nasally and breathy, but oddly chipper for someone who had just been called to her death and was being ignored by the one person who could help her.

"I wonder why," Cassandra said bitterly.

Ryzer cocked her head, genuinely curious. "I was wondering the same thing."

Cassandra blinked. "You don't see anything wrong with this?"

Ryzer shrugged. "Of course not. It's pretty obvious what we have to do." She leaned in closer, then, in a sing-song voice, explained, "_Vernon will help us instead, when the boy is gone and … dead._" She whispered the last word, then erupted in a fit of giggles.

Her giggling startled Vernon and Luke, who turned to look. She gave them a playful wave, and, after a moment, they went back to their conversation. Cassandra stared for a moment, then stood up and headed for the next car.

Ryzer followed, trailing behind her like a lost puppy. "I scared you off. I'm sorry."

Cassandra shook her head. "Don't be. I just wanted to get away from Vernon and Luke so they won't hear us and get … suspicious."

Ryzer giggled. "Good plan. Walking out of the room for no reason after laughing at them definitely wasn't suspicious."

She had a point. "Maybe they'll just assume I was trying to get away from you."

Ryzer's gaze dropped to the floor. She had struck a nerve. How many people had run away from her – or simply avoided her – because of her appearance, her voice, her quirks? Sure, she was a bit strange, but, apart from that, her odd mannerisms seemed to be completely harmless.

Then again, she _had_ just suggested murdering their district partner.

"So you think we should kill him?" Cassandra asked, trying to steer the discussion back on track.

Ryzer's face lit up again. "No, no, no, silly. If we _kill _him, do you really think Vernon is going to help us? No, we need to get someone _else_ to kill him."

Cassandra hesitated. Somehow, that seemed worse. Killing him themselves wasn't appealing, of course, but at least it would have been … honest? Was that the right word? Getting someone else to do the work for them, and then claiming the reward of Vernon's full attention – that seemed a bit underhanded.

But no one ever won the Games by playing fair.

"So how do we convince someone _else_ to kill him?" Cassandra asked, surprised by how easily the words came to her.

Ryzer shrugged. "I'm not sure yet, but we'll figure something out once we meet the other tributes. We've got time."

_We_. Only then did Cassandra realize she had been saying it, as well. "So does this mean that we're … allies?"

If Ryzer had smiled any wider, her face might have split apart. "Do you want to be?"

Cassandra hesitated. She hadn't even thought about allies. She had simply assumed that no one would want her – the sickly, stick-thin girl living on borrowed time. Had Ryzer been assuming the same thing? Was that why she was so happy at the prospect of an ally?

Or did she have something else in mind?

She had been so quick to suggest killing Luke. What was to stop her from turning on an ally, as well, once the deed was done?

Then again, wasn't that the fate of all alliances, in the end? There was only one victor, after all. Sooner or later, they would turn on each other, and, when that happened, wouldn't it be better to know where her opponent was and what she was doing?

And, until then, the company would be … not quite welcome, but certainly refreshing. It had been so long since she'd had someone her own age – or close enough – to talk to without feeling like she was burdening them. And maybe she wasn't the most useful choice for an ally, but Ryzer had asked _her_. Did that mean she didn't consider her a burden – just dead weight to be discarded at the first opportunity?

"I'd like that," Cassandra said at last. "But there's something you should know. I'm—"

"Dying?" Ryzer finished, her tone as chipper as ever.

"How did you—"

Ryzer waved her hand dismissively. "Death has a certain smell. But I wouldn't be worried about that. _We'll all be dying soon enough – at least for thirty-five of us_," she finished in her strange sing-song voice.

She had a point.

"Allies, then?" Cassandra asked, holding out her hand.

Ryzer shook it enthusiastically. "Deal," she agreed, her voice high-pitched and giddy. How long had it been since she'd had a friend?

_No, not friends_, Cassandra reminded herself. _Allies_. They were two different things – especially in the Games. How could they be friends, when only one of them would be alive in a few weeks? How could they be friends, when they could turn on each other at any moment? They had shaken hands, but that handshake would mean next to nothing once they were in the arena. Eventually, the pact would be broken.

But not yet.

* * *

><p><strong>Jazz Farnahm, 17<br>****District Eleven**

Ivy wouldn't stop talking about allies.

Jazz had started tuning her out a while ago. Allies, allies, allies. Surely there was more to the Games than finding the right allies. After all, alliances didn't win the Games. One tribute did. One.

And she wanted it to be her. Not one of her allies. Not one of her district partners. Her. Why did she care if allies would help her 'make it farther'? Who cared about 'making it farther'? Tributes who placed second were just as dead as tributes who came in last.

Besides, who would want her as an ally, anyway? Who would want to ally with a tribute whose own siblings didn't even think she was worth saying goodbye to?

"So, what do you think, Jazz?" Ivy asked suddenly.

"What?" She hadn't been listening for at least twenty minutes.

Ivy sighed, frustrated. "Bakaari, are you sure you _want_ her as an ally?"

What? _That's _what they'd been talking about? Bakaari wanted _her_ as an ally? Jazz had to hold back a laugh. "You want _me_ as an ally? Why?"

Bakaari shrugged. "Why not?"

"That's not an answer."

"Well, if we're going to have allies … doesn't it make sense to start with our district partners? The other boy seems a bit…"

"Soft?" Ivy offered.

Jazz nodded. Lynher and Elijah had gone off on their own a while ago. Whatever they were planning, they clearly weren't interested in an alliance. Which was just fine with her. He didn't seem like the strongest sort, anyway. But Bakaari – tall, muscular, willing to put up a fight against the Peacekeepers at the reaping – he was a different matter.

But why would he want to ally with her?

"I'm not sure I want _any_ allies," she said at last. "I mean, how can I trust you – or anyone? We just met. We're about to be sent into a fight to the death. Only one of us lives. I want it to be me. Obviously, you want it to be you. Why should any of us trust each other?"

"Good point," Ivy agreed. "But the fact is that other tributes _are_ going to be in alliances, whether you think it's a good idea or not. And if two or three of them come after you, it's helpful to have someone else there with you – whether you trust them or not. It's not about trust. It's about strength in numbers."

"But people have won without allies. Elijah last year – he left his allies the first night."

Ivy nodded. "True. But, without them, he might not have made it out of the bloodbath – and certainly wouldn't have ended up with those supplies he was able to steal from them. They served their purpose – keeping him alive – and then he left before they could turn on him. That was smart. I'm not saying you need to stay with your allies the whole Games, but, at the start, it's helpful."

"Did _you_ have allies?" Jazz shot back, knowing the answer already.

Ivy shook her head. "No. But you have to remember, that was the Second Games. Things were a bit different back then. The Games were new. For the first few Games, it was pretty much every tribute for himself. Vester didn't have allies. I didn't have allies. Hazel had one – her district partner. Glenn didn't have any. Tania had one, but she died in the bloodbath. Lander had one – his district partner."

"So what changed?" Bakaari asked.

"Jade. He formed the first Career pack, if you could call it that. It was small – just three of them – but they were terribly effective. They were the strongest three, and, between them, they drew most of the sponsors. The next year, there was an even bigger group – a group that nearly overpowered Mags at the end, before she led them into a trap. Since then, most victors have had allies – at least at one point or another."

"Most," Jazz pointed out.

Ivy nodded. "Miriam didn't. Tobiah didn't. Crispin didn't. Sabine didn't. But look at the last four years. Mortimer was a Career. Misha was a Career. Scarlet was a Career. Elijah joined the Career pack – with a bit of coaxing – if only for a short time. See a pattern?"

Jazz shook her head. "But there are no Careers this year."

"Not your usual ones, no. But there may be some with a bit of training. And there will certainly be tributes who see an advantage in banding together."

"Should we join them, then?" Bakaari asked, a little too quickly for Jazz's liking. A little too eager to do whatever their mentor suggested.

_Their_ mentor. If he was listening to her, and she wasn't … Did that mean Ivy would choose Bakaari over her, if it came down to it? Would she help him more?

But if they were allies, then whatever helped Bakaari _would_ help her.

At least for a while.

"Maybe we should," Jazz agreed, putting a little extra emphasis on the 'we.'

Bakaari brightened. "Does that mean…?"

"Allies? I guess so. At least for a while. She's got a point – about needing allies at first. Later … I guess we can wait and see."

That seemed to be good enough for him. He was probably thinking the same thing – that, at some point, the alliance would have to end. At some point, only one of them could win.

Ivy relaxed considerably now that that matter was settled. Jazz didn't blame her. It was probably easier on a mentor if both tributes were working together. This way, she didn't have to pick one or the other. Didn't have to decide who to help more.

"You never answered the question, you know," Bakaari pointed out. "Do you think we should join the Careers – if there are any?"

Ivy thought for a moment. "You should definitely consider it. Keep it as an option. Wait and see who they are first – how many of them actually seem trained, whether or not they'd be open to working with you. But be careful. Elijah was able to sneak away last year because they trusted him. They won't make the same mistake twice. They'll keep an eye on both of you. Make sure you do the same."

Jazz nodded. But a part of her hoped it would just be her and Bakaari. One ally was enough to keep track of. She didn't want to have to think about five or six of them and how long it would be before one of them decided to turn on the others.

Or before she turned on them.

* * *

><p>"<em>The universe is run by the complex interweaving of three elements: energy, matter, and enlightened self-interest."<em>


	16. Train Rides: Where We Can Learn

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Just a friendly reminder to PM me any alliance requests.

* * *

><p><strong>Train Rides Part Three<br>****Where We Can Learn**

* * *

><p><strong>Alasdair Bryant, 12<br>****District Three**

How was he supposed to choose?

Alasdair watched, overwhelmed, as tribute after tribute was called to their probable deaths. Miriam and Natasha were glued to the screen. Eigen was sulking at a table in the corner. District after district played. Name after name. One after another.

Alasdair sank deeper into the chair, as if he might accidentally sink out of the train completely. Or as if, perhaps, if he fell asleep, he might wake to find it was all a dream, that he was really at home in his bed, that his name had never been called at all.

But it had. He was here. And he had decided, before leaving District Three, that he would make the best of it. That he would find someone – someone worth helping – and make sure that they came home.

But how was he supposed to decide who to help?

It was impossible to tell from just the reapings, of course, but none of them seemed like monsters. Even in the Career districts – districts he would have normally ruled out as potential allies – none of the tributes seemed eager or brutal. His own district partners seemed like a good place to start, but neither of them had given any indication that they would _want_ help from a twelve-year-old kid. Natasha was sixteen – considerably older than him – and Eigen hadn't said a word to anyone else since boarding the train.

After District Twelve, Miriam turned off the tape. "All right, let's get down to business," she said after a moment, motioning them all towards the table, where Eigen was already seated. Natasha quickly chose a spot next to Miriam. Alasdair sat on the end.

For a moment, they simply ate in silence, the four of them warming up to each other. It was Miriam who finally broke the ice. "So, what do we know from the reapings?"

An open-ended question that could go pretty much anywhere. A good way to get to know each of them, understand a bit of how they thought. Alasdair glanced at Natasha, hoping she would go first.

Sure enough, she decided to take a shot at it. "It was an even split – eighteen girls and eighteen boys. Not something that was a given this time."

Miriam nodded. "Very true. Why is that important?"

Natasha thought for a moment. "If there were more of one or the other – say there were more girls – sponsors might be more inclined to pick a girl just because a girl winning would be more statistically likely. Or the reverse, with boys. Half and half makes it an even playing field as far as sponsors go."

Miriam smiled. "That's good – already thinking about sponsors. You're likely to get a few, based on your family name alone, not to mention your looks."

"I'm not my family," Natasha pointed out.

"True, but you can hardly expect the sponsors _not_ to realize that you're a Kovaćić, and your family has a history of placing well."

Natasha cocked an eyebrow. "And you think I'll get sponsors just because of that?"

"Not _just_ because of that, but if you give them a reason to believe you're as promising as the rest of the Kovaćić tributes – or better – then, yes. The Capitol loves drama, and a tribute trying to prove she's got a better shot at the title than the fourteen Kovaćićs before her – yes, they'll eat it up."

Natasha sighed. "I just don't want to end up … relying on my family name to do well."

Miriam nodded. "I know it feels like cheating, but you have to understand – there are no rules now. Anything that can get you sponsors – sponsors who can mean the difference between life and death – is a good thing. Anything."

Natasha nodded reluctantly. "If you say so. It's just … the other Kovaćićs you mentored – they must have had sponsors, too, then. And they still died."

"True," Miriam agreed. "Sponsors are good, but they aren't everything. Sponsors can help with food, supplies, medicine, that sort of thing. But if a tribute is rushing at you with a weapon, there's really nothing sponsors can do to save you. At some point, it's all up to you."

"And I guess the others didn't have what it takes," Eigen spoke up at last.

Maybe he had been hoping that would get a rise out of Natasha, but, if so, he had badly miscalculated. "I guess so," she agreed.

Miriam shook her head. "Let's not kid ourselves. Every year, there are quite a few tributes who – at least in theory – have 'what it takes.' But only one of them comes home. One. Just like sponsors aren't the only factor involved, neither is skill. Allies are important. Strategy is important. But, to be quite honest, there's also a ridiculous amount of luck involved."

Alasdair looked up. "What do you mean?"

Miriam leaned forward a little. "In my Games, we were down to the final four when I was attacked by the pair from Ten. I was outnumbered, and before it was over, I was badly injured. Lying there on the ground, covered in blood, with them standing over me ... I thought it was the end."

"But then I heard a cannon. Somewhere else in the arena, the fourth tribute – the boy from Four – had died. But they assumed it was my cannon, so instead of finishing me off, they left me. That wasn't anything I did. It wasn't anything the sponsors did. I thought at the time that the Gamemakers might have been responsible, but later I found out the boy had been injured earlier, and had been slowly bleeding out for hours. But the fact that he died _just_ as the others were about to finish me off – that was just blind, dumb luck."

"But you still had to kill the other two," Natasha pointed off.

Miriam nodded. "And I did. Caught them by surprise, but that wasn't what did it. The Gamemakers released a flock of bats – bats that fed on blood. They tore into the other tributes, but, since I was already bleeding, they just lapped up the blood that had already been spilled. Again, I was lucky. I couldn't see through the bats, so I just kept swinging my weapon, hoping to hit something, and, eventually, I heard two cannons. I didn't even know until later whether the bats had killed the other tributes, or whether it was me."

"Was it you?" Alasdair asked.

"It was. But, like I said, it wasn't because I 'had what it took' and they didn't. Sometimes, it's the little, unpredictable things that make the biggest difference."

Alasdair nodded, more sure now than ever. He wanted to be one of the little, unpredictable things. He wanted to make a difference. He wanted to find someone – someone like Miriam, someone he would be proud to help – and be that difference for them.

Now he just had to find them.

* * *

><p><strong>Grace Sawyer, 14<br>****District Ten**

Glenn's first suggestion was that they should eat.

Grace was grateful for that, at least. She'd made it back from the swamp at the edge of the district in time for the reaping, but only barely. She hadn't had time to change clothes or to eat, and now she wished she'd had time to do both.

But she wouldn't have traded those last few hours for anything. It was a tradition of sorts, ever since she'd turned twelve and become eligible for the reaping. Just in case her name _was_ called, she wanted her last hours in District Ten to be spent exploring the place she loved most. She wanted those to be her last memories of the district she loved.

That was worth the damage she may have done to the Capitol's first impression of her by showing up at the reaping in her usual muddy clothes and boots. It was worth a few strange looks from her district partners. It was even worth missing out on lunch, because now she had more lunch than she knew what to do with.

But, before they began eating, she took her best guess about the direction the train was headed, then turned and faced west – or her best guess at west – for a moment of silence. Then she sat down and joined the rest of them.

"What was that all about?" Hogan asked.

"I was… I was saying thank you."

"_Thank you_?" Corvo repeated skeptically. "For _what_?"

Grace felt her face growing red with embarrassment. She hadn't meant to draw attention to herself; it was just a habit. "For the food."

Corvo arched an eyebrow. "So you were thanking the Capitol?"

A reasonable assumption, Grace realized. The Capitol _was_ west, after all, and they _had _provided the rather lavish meal. "No," she said quietly. "I was thanking the One."

"The one what?"

"Just the One."

Corvo shrugged, but didn't press any farther. Hogan's attention had turned back to his food. To her surprise, it was Glenn who asked, "So why west?"

Grace looked up. "That's … Beyond."

"Beyond?"

Grace nodded. "Beyond the Capitol. Beyond the districts. No one knows exactly where, but we call it Beyond. A land of plenty. A land of peace. A place where no shadows fall."

A strange look – almost a look of recognition, as if the words were familiar – crossed Glenn's face. "And this Beyond … It's to the west?"

"Maybe. No one really knows." According to the stories, many people had searched for it, all in vain. The ones who found it in the stories were always the ones who _weren't_ looking for it. But that hadn't stopped her from pretending, when she was out in the fields or the ranches or the swamp, that one day she would find Beyond.

A silly dream. A childish one, maybe. It wouldn't be called "Beyond" if it was somewhere in District Ten. It would be called "Inside" or something like that. But that had never stopped her from looking. From dreaming. From hoping.

"I had a dream like that once," Corvo admitted. "A place where things were peaceful and just and right. I wanted to make District Ten that place. But that's all it was, Grace – a dream." He shook his head. "If this Beyond of yours is as perfect as you say, there must not be any people there, because we ruin everything. People are never peaceful or fair. And shadows … well, maybe they're not such a bad thing, if they can hide some of that."

Grace wasn't quite sure what to say to that, so they ate in silence for a while. After the four of them had more than satisfied their appetites, Hogan suggested that they should watch the rest of the reapings. Corvo quickly agreed, and Glenn pointed them in the right direction, saying he'd be there soon.

Once they were alone, however, he turned to Grace. "Where did you hear all this?"

"My mother and father."

"And where did they hear it?"

"Their mothers and fathers."

"Who heard it from theirs?"

Grace nodded. "Probably. Why?"

Glenn sat down. "Because those words … 'a place where no shadows fall' … I've heard them before – a long time ago, from an old friend."

Grace sat straight up, surprised. "Who? Where is he?"

Glenn shook his head. "He's dead. Has been for fifteen years. But the thing is … He wasn't from District Ten. His name was Aron. Aron Meldair. You're too young to remember, but he was the mentor for District Six. He died during the Games fifteen years ago, but one of the last things he said to us – to the other mentors – was that someone had once told him that … that all life is transitory, a dream. _We all come together in the same place, _he said, _at the end of time. If I don't see you again here, I will see you in a little while, in_—"

"_—a place where no shadows fall,_" they finished together.

Glenn nodded. "Exactly. He said he couldn't remember who had told him that, but to hear the same thing from you, all these years later is … Well, it's an odd coincidence."

"My father always says there are no coincidences."

"So you think it means something?"

"Maybe," Grace nodded. But what? She had always assumed that their family's faith, their stories, their words, were unique to District Ten. That other districts would have their own stories. Their own legends – pointing towards the same truth, but using different words.

But their words were the same.

"I don't know," she said at last. "I don't know what it means."

Glenn shook his head. "Neither do I. And I didn't mean to bother you with it. I just … I thought you should know."

"Thank you," Grace said quietly. It felt good, somehow, knowing that, even in the Capitol, or in District Six, there were others. Others who said the same words, maybe even at the same time. There were others who shared her beliefs. Her dreams. Her hopes.

Maybe she wasn't as alone as she'd thought.

* * *

><p><strong>Francis Cooper, 17<br>****District Twelve**

"Who are you?"

Francis looked up, surprised at Silas' question. Had he forgotten their names already? Francis was seated on one end of a sofa, Brennan on the other, with Blythe in the middle. Silas sat in a chair across from them, leaning forward intently, studying them.

After a moment, the other boy took the bait. "I'm Brennan. This is Blythe, and this is Francis."

Silas beamed. "Excellent! Now, who are you?"

"Pardon?"

"Who _are_ you?"

Francis leaned back a little against the couch. He wasn't sure what Silas was trying to get at, but he wasn't about to make a fool of himself trying to guess. Let the two younger tributes play his game.

Blythe was more than willing to play. "Blythe Ayers. I'm fourteen years old. My parents are—"

"Didn't ask who your parents are," Silas pointed out. "I asked who _you_ are."

"I just said!"

"You gave me a name and a number – exactly what I'm sure you _don't _want to be. Who _are_ you?"

"I … I don't know."

Silas was still grinning. "Brilliant! Brennan, who are you?"

"I'm … just me."

"Fantastic! Francis, who are you?"

Francis thought for a moment. "A tribute."

"Wonderful! What else?"

"What else? I'm a tribute who's going to be fighting for his life in a few days and whose mentor apparently cares more about playing games than about actually helping," Francis pointed out.

Silas laughed wildly, clapping his hands together. "But that's the point, Francis. This _is_ a game. It's _the_ Game. The most important Game you'll ever play. And in this Game, you are who you decide to be. So let me rephrase. You all seem pretty unsure about who you are. Who do you _want_ to be?"

"Who do we want to be?" Blythe repeated.

"Exactly! The Games are an opportunity to choose. You get to decide what sort of image you're going to project – and all of Panem is going to see it. So what's it going to be? It could save your life, you know. What have you always wanted to be, but couldn't – or were _told _you weren't? Who are you _now_?"

Blythe hesitated, but then spoke, softly. "I'm … smart?"

"Is that a question or an answer?"

"An answer," Blythe said, a bit more confidently. "I'm smart."

"How smart?" Silas coaxed.

"_Very _smart. Probably the smartest in my class. Maybe the smartest in all of Panem."

"Yes!" Silas grinned. "_That's_ it. But you can't just _say _it; you have to act the part, so the audience will believe it. How should the smartest tribute in the arena act?"

"Like … like all of this is going to be easy. Like I'm bored and want to find something more challenging to do, a harder problem to solve."

"Splendid! How about you, Brennan? Who are you _now_?"

Brennan glanced at Blythe, who nodded encouragingly. After a moment, he answered. "I'm … I'm just a kid from District Twelve."

Francis expected Silas to be disappointed with that answer, but their mentor's smile didn't fade for an instant. "Go deeper. What does that mean? What's so special about District Twelve?"

"It's…" Brennan fumbled for a moment over his own words. Because, of course, there _was_ nothing special about District Twelve. Nothing amazing or wonderful or even very interesting. But, after a moment, he found the words he wanted. "We're hard-working. We're honest, decent people, and, even when things are tough, we survive. We're … indomitable."

"Indomitable!" Silas repeated. "Ooh, I like that word. Indomitable! And how does someone indomitable act in the Games?"

"Like … like they're just another job to get through, just another task to accomplish, and like all it's going to take to get through it is hard work and patience."

"Fabulous!" Silas agreed. "And what about you, Francis. Who are _you _now?"

Francis thought for a moment. Blythe and Brennan were going along with him so easily. They were young – young enough that the idea that they could totally reinvent themselves, that they could just _decide _who they wanted to be, still appealed to them. But just _saying_ you were smart or brave or strong or determined didn't make it true. It might fool the audience for a while, but what use was it really going to be once the Games started?

"Alive," Francis decided at last. "I'm alive … and I'd like to stay that way."

Silas didn't miss a beat. "Terrific! Flexibility – I like that. You're whatever you need to be to stay alive – that's a great image!"

"It's not an image! It's the truth."

"Of course it is! It's all true." He leaned forward a little more, his smile fading momentarily. "In the end, we are what we _choose _to be. Oh, maybe not right away. But, eventually, what we value defines who we _are_. If someone values intelligence, they'll do their best to be as intelligent as possible, and, eventually, it becomes part of who they are. If you act patient long enough, you eventually _become_ patient. Do the brave thing, and bravery will follow. Act indomitable, and eventually that act becomes a reality. Live – _really _live – and you'll find you have what it takes to stay that way."

"But we can't – not all three of us," Francis pointed out. "Only one person wins – one out of thirty-six. And all thirty-six of us are going to have something – some image, some angle. The other mentors out there are probably telling their tributes the exact same thing. What makes us any different to the audience?"

Silas shrugged. "Nothing. This isn't for them; it's for you. Once you realize that you can _decide _who you are, the Games change. Your actions become your choice, not a terrible fate inflicted on you by the Capitol, or the Gamemakers, or me. _Choose_, and you'll find it's easier to live with the choice."

"But what if we choose wrong?" Francis asked.

Silas' smile returned. "Why, my dear boy, I thought that was rather obvious." He leaned back in his chair.

"If you choose wrong, you die."

* * *

><p>"<em>The Universe puts us in places where we can learn. They are never easy places, but they are right."<em>


	17. Train Rides: Communities

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **A few things before we get started. First of all, my friend and fellow SYOT writer Jakey121 is starting a new SYOT, so I'd like to encourage all of you to submit.

Second, _Mockingjay Part 1 _was _fantastic. _If you haven't seen it, go see it.

Third, a friendly reminder to vote in my "favorite tribute" poll if you haven't already. When the next chapter is posted, a new poll will be up.

Lastly, thank you to those of you who voiced your opinion concerning alliances. With thirty-six tributes, alliances would have been a lot harder to sort out without your input. I now have most of the alliances settled in my head, but if there's something you'd still like to suggest, feel free to do so.

And now, without further ado, here's our last batch of train rides.

* * *

><p><strong>Train Rides Part Four<br>****Communities**

* * *

><p><strong>Kinley Arnoult, 18<br>****District Four**

"Why don't you join us?"

Kinley waved Barclay over. They had just finished watching the reapings, and Naomi had immediately taken Calissa to a separate car to discuss strategy. Calissa hadn't said anything to them, but a clear message had been sent: She didn't want to be their ally.

But that was no reason why she and Barclay couldn't work together.

It made sense, after all. Barclay's mentor, Misha, was still sleeping off the sedative the Peacekeepers had given him and, according to Mags, probably wouldn't be much help for the rest of the ride. Or in the Capitol. Or in the Games. Since she would be mentoring Barclay, as well, in all but name, they might as well team up.

Barclay, for his part, seemed grateful to be included, and eagerly took a seat next to Kinley. Mags studied them both for a moment, waiting. Waiting for one of them to ask a question? Waiting for them to say something about the reapings? Waiting for one of them to officially offer the other an alliance?

"Are we Careers?" Kinley asked suddenly.

Barclay looked over, surprised. "What do you mean?"

"Well, as far as the Capitol knows, we're from a Career district, you're pretty strong, and I'm…" Kinley hesitated. She'd spoken before she'd thought. What was she? What did she have that could convince the Capitol she was Career material.

"A strategist," Mags offered. "You won't fool Calissa, but you might be able to fool the audience, especially if the two of you are planning on working together."

Kinley could hear Mags' unspoken question: _So are you? _She nodded easily. "Sounds good to me."

Barclay nodded. "Yeah, let's do that."

Mags raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised it had been that easy. "All right, then. In that case, during training, you'll want to act a bit more like Careers. Act like you planned to be there, like this is no big deal, like you were glad you were picked. Pick a simple, straightforward weapon that you can pretend to have some experience with, and stick with that if you want practice with a weapon. Or you could stick to the survival stations, pretend you've already got all the weapon training you'll need."

"But then we wouldn't get any practice with weapons," Barclay pointed out.

Mags shook her head. "Weapons practice during training is a joke. What are you really going to learn in three days? Barclay, you've got a lot of raw strength. Grab a club – or anything you can use as a club – and it'll serve you better than three days of training with a rare type of sword that may or may not even be in the arena."

"Really?" Kinley asked. She hadn't just assumed that whatever they practiced with would probably be in the arena somewhere.

"Really," Mags nodded. "My first year as a mentor, I had a tribute who had trained at least a little with pretty much every sort of weapon you could think of. You know what they had in the arena? Knives. That's it. He died in the bloodbath. The girl, Ella, who'd had no experience with weapons aside from having used a knife to clean fish, made it to the final three. All in all, you're much better off at the survival stations. Learn how to start a fire, because there's usually _something_ to make a fire out of, and the concept is the same no matter what material you're using. Or how to set a snare to catch game, because there will almost certainly be _something_ you can catch and eat. But a bow and arrow? A spear? A sword? They're so different, you'll never cover every possibility in three days."

"Good point," Barclay nodded agreeably.

Of course it was a good point. Mags knew what she was doing. She was District Four's first victor. This was her seventeenth year as a mentor. Neither of them wanted to be here, but if there was anyone they could trust their lives to during the Games, it was Mags.

They. That caught Kinley off-guard – how easily she had started thinking of herself and Barclay as a team. Planning together. Training together. Facing the arena together.

And, to her surprise, it felt good. It felt good to have an ally already, because it meant that, no matter what happened during training, whether anyone else joined them or not – either way, she wouldn't be going into the arena alone.

"What about other allies?" Barclay asked. "Do you think it should just be the two of us, or should we try to find some others?"

Mags thought for a moment. "It depends on who the others are. I'd avoid anyone who seems too much like a Career."

"Why?" Kinley asked. Weren't they pretending to be Careers?

"Because Calissa will be looking for them. If she thinks she's competing with you for the same allies, she may simply go ahead and tell them you're not trained. And if they ask you to prove that you are – well, that wouldn't go too well for either of you. Let her pick the strongest, if that's what she's after. Look for people you can trust."

Kinley nodded, but her mind was already reeling. People they could trust. What did that even mean, in the Games? How could she tell from just a few days of training who she could trust with her life? Who she could trust not to kill her in her sleep?

Then again, it had taken her a matter of minutes to decide she could trust Barclay. And he had decided to trust her just as quickly. What did that say about them? Were they both simply that trustworthy? Or simply poor judges of character?

"Trust your instincts," Mags advised, as if she'd read her doubts in her expression. "And trust each other. If one of you has doubts about a potential ally, call it off. There are thirty-six of you this year; you can afford to be a bit choosier than normal."

"How choosy?" Kinley asked. "How many people would you suggest?"

Mags shrugged. "The size isn't as important as the people. Tributes with five or six allies have won, but tributes with no allies – or one or two – have also won. There are no guarantees in the Games, no one strategy that works every single time. If you find one more ally you can trust, that's good. If you find three you can trust, that's good. But one ally you can trust is better than three that you can't. Does that make sense?"

They both nodded.

"Trust your instincts," Mags repeated. "I can give you all the advice you want, but, in the end, once you're in the Games, you'll have to rely on your own intuition. And that's one thing that's as true for Careers as it is for you. All the training, all the instruction you could have doesn't truly prepare you for the arena. It can't. Once you're in the Games, your instincts will take over – and that's good. It'll keep you alive. Strategy is great, but it's more important to be flexible, to be able to adjust that strategy when things don't go according to plan. In the same way, allies are helpful, but, once you're in the arena, you'll have to trust your gut about whether or not you should stay with them or strike out on your own."

"Did you have allies?" Kinley asked.

Mags nodded. "One. My district partner, Zale. But he died in the bloodbath. Charged right in, and he was dead in seconds, while I just … ran. I left him. And I survived."

Kinley looked away, trying to picture what she would do in that situation. Trying to picture leaving Barclay to die in order to save her own life. Maybe she could do it. Maybe.

But she hoped she wouldn't have to.

* * *

><p><strong>Viktoria Halisent, 16<br>****District Seven**

"Why don't you join us?"

Viktoria looked up from her plate, startled by Saoirse's question. Jason and Saoirse had been discussing an alliance. It made sense – the two of them. The girl with family and the boy with friends. They both needed someone, and it was just so easy to team up with each other instead of looking at other options.

But Viktoria wanted other options.

They were nice enough, of course – which was most of the problem. Being nice didn't win the Hunger Games. She didn't need nice allies. She needed allies who could get the job done. And the more she heard Jason and Saoirse talk, the more convinced she became that, when their lives were really on the line, they wouldn't have what it took.

Viktoria looked away. What made her think that she _did_? She was a thief, not a murderer. She'd never even thought about taking a life. She had broken down and cried at the reaping. And here she was judging her own district partners for … what? For being friendly?

"I think it's a good idea," Hazel suggested. Of course she did. If the three of them were allies, it would be easier to help all of them at the same time. Otherwise, Hazel would have to choose. And if she had to choose between helping two of them and helping one…

Was not burdening herself with the others worth risking losing sponsors because Hazel was focusing on them?

"It's all right if you don't want to," Saoirse said after another long silence. "I just figured … the more the merrier, right?"

Viktoria cringed. The girl meant well, but nothing in the Games was 'merrier,' especially not having more people to look after. She had no doubt that, if she accepted an alliance with these two, they would end up looking to her. Depending on her. She would be the provider, and they would benefit.

That was no way to survive.

And, as much as part of her might want to help these two, she had to focus on her own survival. She had to find allies who would be able to help _her_, not the other way around. At last, she shook her head. "I don't think that's a good idea."

Saoirse nodded agreeably, apparently not hurt at all by her refusal. "That's all right. I'm sure you'll find somebody else."

Somebody else. Of course she would. There were thirty-six of them, after all; she would be able to find _someone_.

But what if she couldn't? Did she really want to risk going into the arena alone by turning these two down now? Viktoria softened her expression. "I just meant that it's probably not a good idea to decide so quickly. I haven't even met any of the other tributes – and neither have you. I may find someone who would be a better match, but you might, too. So maybe it's better to … well, to keep our options open."

Saoirse nodded, but Viktoria could tell she didn't really understand. She had already bonded with Jason; there was no breaking that alliance now.

Jason, on the other hand, understood perfectly. "So what you're saying is that if you don't find anyone _better_, you'll have to settle for being stuck with us," he pointed out bitterly. "We're your fallback option, your plan B if you don't manage to find anyone who would be more useful." He glanced at Saoirse and shook his head. "Well, we don't want to be just your backup plan. If you don't want to be our ally, say so, and we'll let you be."

Viktoria nodded. At least he had a good head on his shoulders, even if he was a bit eager to pick a fight. "Fine. I don't want to be your ally. But that doesn't mean we have to be enemies."

Jason shook his head. "Of course it does. That's what being in the arena _means_. We're already enemies – all of us. It's just that some of us don't realize it yet."

He was right, of course. They were all enemies – even those pretending to be allies for a while. Anything else was just wishful thinking. Why should she care if he didn't like her, or if he resented her for rejecting their alliance? Why should it matter what he thought of her?

He was probably already planning to kill her.

They were competition, after all – not just in the Games, but also for Hazel's attention. She had the power to choose which of them to help. And the only way to make certain that it was her would be if the other two were dead. They were probably thinking the same thing. That was probably why they had offered an alliance in the first place – they wanted to ensure that Hazel would help _all _of them. But now that she had said no…

"Viktoria's right; you shouldn't make this decision quickly," Hazel pointed out. "You just met each other. You don't really have a good idea whether any of you would work well together. It might work; it might not. So it's good to keep your options open. Meet the other tributes. Get in a few days of training. _Then_ decide. Don't start burning bridges yet."

Viktoria nodded, but she couldn't shake the fact that the bridge was already burnt. Jason had already realized that he and Saoirse weren't her first choice. Saoirse might trust her, but he never would.

And he was right not to.

So she would have to find someone else. Someone who _would _trust her. Someone she could use, someone she could con, as she had conned so many others. Only this time, she wouldn't be conning them out of their money or their jewels. She would be conning them out of their lives.

How different could it be?

* * *

><p><strong>Dennar Viesennor, 14<br>****District Nine**

"Why don't you join us?"

When Tobiah didn't reply, Dennar ventured a little closer. Tobiah's eyes were closed, but a bottle of alcohol was in his good hand, and, as Dennar took another step, Tobiah's eyes flew open. "I wouldn't come too close, kid," Tobiah mumbled, raising the bottle threateningly. "You have no idea what I'm capable of."

Dennar took a step back. Actually, he did know. He remembered. He had only been seven during Tobiah's Games, but he remembered. All of District Nine probably remembered watching as Tobiah and his district partner, both driven mad by the hallucinogenic fog that filled the arena, tore each other to pieces. Before it was over, Tobiah had lost his hand … but Avery had lost her head.

Tobiah, satisfied that he had sufficiently intimidated the boy, leaned back against the couch, his feet propped up on a footstool, his good hand dropping lazily to his side, still holding the bottle. "What do you want?"

"I…" Dennar hesitated a moment before making his request. Did he really want to ask this? Summoning all his courage, he blurted it out before he could rethink it. "I came to ask you to be my mentor."

Tobiah burst out laughing, spilling his drink all over the couch. "You _what_? Are you out of your head, kid? Why the hell would you want _me_ as a mentor?"

Dennar swallowed hard, collecting his reasons. "The others are in the other car right now talking about strategy. And Crispin's doing his best, I'm sure, but trying to mentor three tributes … it's just too much for one person. He's going to end up ignoring someone. I'm the youngest; I'm the logical choice. So instead of trying to share him between the three of us, I figured why not lighten the load? You're here, anyway." He took a step forwards. "Besides, it would give you something to do."

Tobiah smiled lazily, swirling his drink. "I already _have_ something to do."

"Something _useful_. Something _good_. What do you have to lose?"

"Sleep."

Dennar smiled a little, undeterred. "Wouldn't you lose more sleep over saying no?"

"Not a wink. You're hopeless, anyway."

Dennar shrugged. "Well, if I'm that hopeless, then I'll die quickly, and you can get back to drinking and sleeping. But if I'm not…"

"You're an idiot."

"Maybe. But I'm the one whose life is on the line. Shouldn't I get to decide who I trust it with?"

Tobiah cocked an eyebrow. "You trust me?"

Dennar shrugged. "Why not?"

"Oh, maybe because I _killed seven people_, including my district partner."

"Only to save your own life. Crispin did the same thing. And if I'm going to win, I'm going to have to…" For a moment, the words stuck in his throat. "I'm going to have to kill, too."

Tobiah cocked an eyebrow. "Well, at least you got the words out. So you trust me _because_ I'm a killer, and you think I can help you become one, too? Do you really think you have it in you?"

"Did you, before you were in the arena?"

Tobiah hesitated. After a moment, he shook his head. "No. No, I wasn't a killer. I was young. Arrogant. Headstrong and thoughtless. But a killer? No, I would never have imagined what I was capable of." He shook his head. "That's what the Games do to you, kid. They take ordinary people and turn us into … well, monsters."

Dennar took a few cautious steps closer, then sat down in a chair. "You're not a monster."

"What makes you so sure? What makes you so sure I'm not going to take this bottle, slam it against the floor, and use the broken glass to cut your throat? What makes you think I'm not two seconds away from grabbing your skinny little carcass and tossing you off this train? I'd probably be doing you a favor! At least then you wouldn't have to see yourself become a monster before you died. It would be quick. Painless." He stood up, glaring menacingly. "I could do it – right here, right now. Save someone else the trouble. What is it in your naïve little head that makes you think I'm not going to do it?"

Dennar stared. Blinked. But then he realized what Tobiah was waiting for. He put on his best smile. "What makes you think _I'm_ not going to?"

Tobiah burst out laughing. But not the cold, derisive laugh from before. A full, hearty, genuine laugh. "All right, then, kid, you've got yourself a mentor."

Dennar grinned. "You'll do it?"

Tobiah shrugged. "It's your funeral. Probably literally. But until then, yes. I'm all yours."

Dennar nodded, hoping he had made the right choice. It was a gamble, but it seemed best for everyone. He had his own mentor. Crispin could focus on the other two. And Tobiah … maybe he needed this even more than the rest of them did. Maybe what he needed was to feel useful. To feel like he could make a difference – like he could save a life.

But only if Dennar won.

Dennar clenched his fists. This gave him one more reason to fight. It wasn't just about his own life anymore; it was about what he could do for his mentor. It was the push he'd needed – a way to help someone else _and_ himself at the same time. A way to care about someone else and still save his own skin.

He just hoped that would be enough.

* * *

><p>"<em>Everywhere humans go, they create communities out of diverse and sometimes hostile populations."<em>


	18. Chariot Rides: What You See

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **First of all, thank you to everyone who voted in the "favorite tribute" poll. The results are up on the blog, along with a little post about what I use polls for (and what I don't use them for).

Also, there's a new poll up on my profile, this time asking which tributes you _think _will die in the bloodbath. Please note that this is not necessarily the same as which tributes you _want_ to see die in the bloodbath. As with the last one, feel free to vote for as many as you like. (Honestly, I'm just as curious about how _many _tributes you think will die as I am about which ones.) This poll will be up until the end of training day three, so feel free to wait until then if you'd like to get a better feel for the tributes' abilities and alliances first.

Lastly, thank you to everyone who included chariot outfit ideas with their form. That makes this chapter so much easier to write. If you didn't (and if neither of your district partners did, either) then you were left to the whims of my imagination, and you'll just have to live with the result.

* * *

><p><strong>Chariot Rides<br>****What You See**

* * *

><p><strong>Constance Juniper<br>****Hunger Games Co-Host**

She couldn't be happier.

Constance beamed up at her father as the cameras began rolling. This was it! She was finally here. Finally part of the Hunger Games. And during a Quarter Quell, no less. It was no secret that Cornelius had been grooming her to take his place, and now, at last, she could join him in the light.

"Helooooo Panem, and welcome to the Twenty-Fifth Hunger Games and the very first Quarter Quell!" Cornelius' voice echoed through the room, filling it with laugher and cheer. "Tonight, we have a very special guest. Please welcome my daughter, Constance Juniper!"

Constance felt a surge of pride as the applause rose from the crowd. Her. They were cheering for her.

But that was wrong. She wasn't the focus of attention tonight. So, after a moment, she corrected him. "Actually, father, we have _thirty-six _very special guests who I'm sure the audience is just dying to meet."

"True, true, but you can't begrudge a father a small moment of pride. Very well – on to the Tribute Parade!" They both watched as the first of the chariots appeared.

This was it.

* * *

><p><strong>Stellar Floren<br>****District One Mentor**

They weren't what the Capitol was expecting.

Stellar sighed, drumming her fingers on the arm of her chair. The costumes were perfect – deep, rich blue robes laced with diamonds in patterns that gave the impression of constellations. Elaine, Henri, and Daedem each wore a crown of thirteen stars. One for each of the districts, and a large one in the center to represent the Capitol. Each carried a scepter, the jewel at the top shining as if with starlight.

The tributes, on the other hand, were far from perfect. Henri and Daedem stood at the back of the chariot – Henri shying away from the crowd, Daedem scowling at them. Elaine stood a little ways in front of them, and Stellar was pleased to see that _her_ tribute seemed to be enjoying herself – at least a little. She was smiling and waving, occasionally raising her scepter towards different sections of the audience.

Jade nodded. "Not bad. You tell her to do that?"

Stellar shook her head. "Didn't have to. She's actually enjoying it – the spectacle, the show. It's new, it's exciting, and it's a distraction from the fact that they'll be killing each other soon."

She wasn't used to her tributes needing that distraction. She had wanted to be there. Every other tribute she had mentored had trained for this. So part of this was new for her, as well.

And part of her was excited.

* * *

><p><strong>Vester Pierce<br>****District Two Mentor**

They weren't what the Capitol was expecting.

Vester smiled a little, satisfied. For once, District Two wasn't the center of the audience's attention. Bland. Boring. Normal. That was how they would see this year's tributes, for the first time in years.

Even the outfits lacked their usual spark. Their stylist had apparently latched onto District One's theme of outer space, but, instead of focusing on the stars, had chosen lumps of space rocks. Dewan, Adrian, and Simone each wore a grey outfit studded with sparkly gems. The colors of the rocks and the deep blue of the chariot suggested another world, but the fact remained that everyone had seen rocks before.

Adrian and Dewan were playing along – flexing their rock-covered muscles and trying to appear as strong as any stone. Simone simply stood there, as silent and still as one of the rocks she was clothed in, acknowledging neither the audience nor her fellow tributes.

"Could be worse," Talitha pointed out. "They could have dressed them up as one big rock, instead of covering them with little ones."

Vester shook his head fondly. In some ways, Talitha had grown, but, in others, she was still that blindly optimistic young girl he had been convinced would die in the bloodbath. The Games had tempered her natural cheeriness, but they hadn't extinguished it completely.

For that, he envied her.

* * *

><p><strong>Miriam Valence<br>****District Three Mentor**

They couldn't be more different.

Miriam forced a smile as her three tributes appeared, covered in flashy outfits that were probably supposed to resemble computer screens. Her tributes. All hers. How was she supposed to help them all? Two was a struggle, but, at least sometimes, she'd been able to convince them to work together so that she could help them both. So that she wouldn't have to choose.

She'd had no such luck this time around. Eigen had stopped sulking only long enough to tell her that he didn't care what she thought about allies. Natasha was looking for stronger allies, allies who would actually be useful. And Alasdair … She wasn't quite sure what he wanted, now that she thought about it, but it was pretty clear that neither of the others was interested in allying with him.

And it showed. Natasha was waving at the crowd, forcing a smile, forcing herself to play the part of another Kovaćić excited to prove herself. Eigen was still sulking. Alasdair was doing his best not to look at the crowd. Or his district partners. In fact, he spent most of the chariot ride staring at his feet.

She had done the same thing.

Miriam shook the thought from her head. She was supposed to be helping them all. Not just the tribute who reminded her of herself ten years ago. But the fact remained that, in the end, only one could survive.

And all three were depending on her.

* * *

><p><strong>Naomi Darya<br>****District Four Mentor**

They couldn't be more similar.

Naomi shook her head, watching Calissa's district partners make fools of themselves. They were all dressed as pirates, which was bad enough, but Barclay and Kinley didn't have to stagger around the chariot as if it were the deck of a ship, pretending to be drunk out of their wits. Sure, they were having fun, but the whole Capitol was laughing at them.

She was glad she had trusted her instincts. Glad she had warned Calissa against teaming up with these two. In addition to being inexperienced – which was to be expected – they were ridiculously childish. Childishness didn't last long in the Games. They were either going to break down or simply snap, and, in either case, she didn't want Calissa anywhere nearby when it happened.

Calissa, for her part, was making the best of the obnoxious peg leg and eye patch she had been given. Naomi knew it was probably taking of all her restraint not to remove the peg leg and whack one of her district partners in the head with it. Part of her was hoping she would just do it and end the spectacle, but there were rules about tributes fighting before the arena.

So Calissa simply ignored the other two. Watched the crowd intently. Waited for it to be over. Barclay and Kinley were entertaining now, but, soon, she would have her turn.

Soon, the Games would begin.

* * *

><p><strong>Harakuise Swallot<br>****District Five Mentor**

The two girls were insane.

Harakuise glanced over at Sabine, who seemed pleased with her tribute's efforts. Mirami, Mercury, and Niles were dressed as exploding supernovas, their black outfits bursting with rings of color. The two girls, at least, seemed to be practically exploding with energy. They were grinning, waving, blowing kisses. They were both enjoying themselves.

He wondered how many people in the Capitol could tell the difference. How many of them would be able to see that Mercury's smiles were a bit more guarded, her kisses a bit more hesitant? She was enjoying herself, to be sure, but she hadn't forgotten the danger that loomed over the three of them.

Clearly, neither had Niles. His eyes were fixed on Harakuise. If looks could kill, he would be dead already. But, fortunately, there was no such power in Niles' gaze. He was considering it, certainly. Eventually, he would act. But Harakuise was no fool. He hadn't made it through his own Games by hoping people would have the sense to leave him alone. Niles had no such sense. Sooner or later, he would make his move.

And Harakuise would be ready with his.

But, for now, he had another tribute to focus on. A tribute who didn't seem to realize that beyond all the glamour and spectacle of the Capitol was the reality that she had only a very small chance of surviving the Games, and that what little chance she had deserved her full attention. But the more he thought about it, the less he could blame her for not giving the Games her full attention.

After all, she didn't have his.

* * *

><p><strong>Vernon Barrow<br>****District Six Mentor**

The two girls were insane.

Vernon sighed. Apparently, their stylist was, as well. The outfits this year were a terrible hodge-podge of half-realized ideas. Half a uniform outfit – a conductor's hat and tall black boots – and half … well, something else. Each of them wore a silver jacket, black shorts, and a rope belt. A piece of fabric, shaped almost like a peacock's tail, fanned out behind them when they raised their arms, revealing half a wheel on the fabric.

Half. Half of this. Half of that. Whoever had come up with it clearly only had half a brain. But the two girls seemed to be enjoying it. Ryzer was chattering away. Maybe even singing; he couldn't tell. Cassandra was listening with an odd smile on her face.

Luke was doing his best to ignore them. He stood tall and proud, waving to the audience like Vernon had told him to do. The outfits weren't anything to be proud of, but he could still make a good impression based on his attitude. It was a little thing, but it was something, and, for now, it was all he could do.

"I'm sorry," came a voice from behind him. Crispin. "I know you adopted those boys because you wanted to do something good – and now you're right back here with him, facing the same thing all over again."

Vernon nodded. They were the only ones who understood – the other victors. Back in District Six, they could offer him sympathy. Pity. Here, the others could offer understanding.

In some ways, they were his family as much as the boy in the chariot.

* * *

><p><strong>Hazel Birnam<br>****District Seven Mentor**

It was the worst costume since the apples fifteen years ago.

Hazel rolled her eyes when she saw what the stylists had come up with this time. Jason, Saoirse, and Viktoria were dressed as lumberjacks … and trees. Their legs were covered in something that was probably supposed to look like tree bark, but each of them wore a lumberjack shirt and held an axe.

Then the three of them made it worse. Jason took the first swing – swiping Viktoria's legs half-playfully with his axe. Viktoria responded in kind – but harder. Grinning, Saoirse joined in, and, soon, the three of them were all pretending to chop at each other's trunks with blades that were – fortunately, for now – not real.

Hazel turned and glared at Lander. "Not a word."

Lander was struggling not to laugh, but he shook his head. "Nope. Remember what happened the last time I made fun of your outfits?"

Carolina glared. "Oh, so I have _you _to blame for that embarrassment?"

Lander shrugged. "Only if you believe in jinxes. Personally, I don't think anything will happen if I say … That is the worst chariot costume I've ever seen."

Hazel nodded her agreement. It was terrible. The whole audience was laughing. Maybe it wasn't the _worst _ever, but it was pretty close.

Then she saw District Eight.

* * *

><p><strong>Lander Katz<br>****District Eight Mentor**

"So, is this better or worse than pincushions?" Carolina asked.

Lander had to think about that one. Fletcher, Shilo, and Enzo were dressed as large, bulky spools of thread. But that wasn't the worst part. Apparently, the thread on the spools was real, and so were the knots that resulted when the three of them moved. Soon, they were tangled together, and, as they tried to free themselves, it only made matters worse.

"Worse," Lander decided. "Becoming a pincushion in the arena is one thing. Unraveling completely – that's another matter."

Carolina nodded. She knew what he meant. It was a discussion they'd had upon occasion – whether they were lucky to be alive, or whether the lucky ones were the ones who died in the arena. Which of them took which side depended on the day, depended on which one was feeling guiltier or more broken. And it was up to the other one to convince them that, yes, they were the lucky ones.

Because at least they were still alive. And, as long as they were still alive, they could do something good with the time they had left.

At least, that was what they told themselves. What they told each other. But, so far, neither of them had been able to carry that "something good" over to the Games and save another life.

But maybe this year, Lander thought as he watched the three tributes try to untangle themselves from each other. Maybe this year would be different. Maybe this year, one of these three would get lucky.

Or maybe they would all unravel.

* * *

><p><strong>Crispin Zephyr<br>****District Nine Mentor**

He had assumed that, after spools of thread, the outfits would get better.

Crispin sighed. Apparently, the outer-district stylists were having a competition to decide who could come up with the worst outfit. Radiance, Asteria, and Dennar were dressed as field mice, complete with furry outfits, little ears, and even tails.

Clearly, none of them were happy with it. Their gazes were fixed on each other, not the audience, as if they were engaged in a little field mouse discussion about how to best avoid the eyes of the hawks around them. Dennar was talking – and even smiling a little. Crispin managed a smile. He couldn't hear what the boy was saying, but he could imagine a few words of encouragement – making the best of a really lousy situation.

Just as he had made the best of his mentoring situation, and found what might be the best situation for all involved. Crispin glanced over at Tobiah, who was actually watching the chariot rides for the first time in years. Actually paying attention. Actually looking a little bit concerned about the fact that the outfits were making the tributes look perfectly foolish.

And whatever the reason behind it, Dennar's decision had allowed Crispin more time with Radiance and Asteria, who were looking a little more confident after Dennar's pep talk and even began waving at the audience a little. Crispin smiled. That was more than he'd done at his own chariot rides. He'd been too stiff, too scared even to move. Even to smile. And yet here he was.

Proof that anyone had a chance.

* * *

><p><strong>Glenn Chester<br>****District Ten Mentor**

"So, are rabbits better or worse than mice?" Crispin asked with a sympathetic smile

Glenn shook his head as Crispin gave him a pat on the back. Grace, Corvo, and Hogan were dressed as rabbits – complete with long, droopy ears and floppy tails. Corvo and Hogan were practically fuming, and even Grace looked upset with the cute, fuzzy outfit. "Do you think they're doing it on purpose?" Glenn asked.

Crispin shrugged. "Who knows? They probably think it's terribly clever. You were what – a cow?"

Glenn nodded. "I guess they were running out of animals. They've done cows, pigs, sheep, chickens, ducks, geese – why not rabbits?"

"I wonder if anyone has ever told the stylists how horrible the costumes are," Crispin mused. "There can't be _that_ many people who think these ideas are actually _good._ The audience certainly doesn't."

He was right. The audience had been jeering and laughing since District Seven. Surely the stylists noticed. But maybe they didn't care. Maybe, like so many of the escorts, they were simply waiting for a chance to be moved to one of the Career districts. Until then, who cared if District Ten's outfits looked bad? After all, what did District Ten have? A victor who had earned the title through luck and another who had practically fallen into a coma upon realizing what she'd done. Maybe the stylists, like so many others, had simply given up on them.

But he wouldn't.

* * *

><p><strong>Ivy Asters<br>****District Eleven Mentor**

It was certainly better than mice or rabbits.

Ivy breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that District Eleven's costumes didn't involve furry little rodents. Instead, the tributes were dressed in more traditional outfits, each with a pattern of grain lightly embroidered on the fabric. Jazz's dress and leggings were green, and a wreath of flowers rested on her head. Bakaari's suit was golden-brown, like the grain ready for a harvest, his head wreathed with autumn leaves. Lynher's outfit was a pure white, with patches of brown underneath, like a tree covered in snow, his hair sprinkled with snowflakes.

"Not bad," Elijah nodded, reading her expression. It wasn't anything spectacular, but it was certainly better than rabbits, mice, spools of thread, and trees chopping each other down. And the tributes' attitudes reflected that. They stood taller, more confident, than those in the districts before them. None of them looked particularly comfortable or excited, but at least they had no reason to be embarrassed.

Lynher started waving, and the others, not about to be shown up, quickly followed. The audience cheered, much more satisfied than they had been with the last four districts. Ivy smiled and clapped Elijah on the back. Maybe chariot rides weren't the most important thing that would happen in the next few days, but it never hurt to make a good impression.

And, after those last four costumes, _anything_ would have looked amazing.

* * *

><p><strong>Silas Grisom<br>****District Twelve Mentor**

At least they weren't coal miners.

Silas wasn't sure whether dressing Blythe, Brennan, and Francis as lumps of coal was better or worse than coal miners, but at least it was different. The chariot was painted a brick-red, which was apparently supposed to make it look like a fireplace. A fireplace with three big, bulky lumps of coal.

The costumes were clearly heavy; all three tributes were having a hard time keeping their balance with the extra weight as the chariot rolled forward. Without warning, Francis lost his balance, toppling over onto Brennan and rocking the chariot, which brought Blythe down into a heap next to them.

For a moment, they struggled to get up, but then he saw Blythe shake her head. _Stay down_. The other two seemed confused for a moment, but they decided to follow her lead, resting on the bottom of the chariot.

Silas smiled. Maybe Blythe _was _as smart as she said she wanted to be. Because there, on the floor of the chariot, at least they looked more like lumps of coal. The beginnings of a pile that could be used to start a fire. It wasn't much, but it was better than rocking all over the place, trying to stand.

Sometimes the weakest position could be turned into the strongest one.

* * *

><p><strong>Helius Florum<br>****Head Gamemaker**

Three names.

Helius glanced over the slip of paper that President Hyde had handed him after the tribute parade. "Only three this time?"

Hyde nodded. "I was thinking about what you said – about three being symbolic. The past, the present, and the future. So one of them was chosen because of what they had done, another because of what they are doing, and the third because of what they will do."

Helius cocked an eyebrow. "Will do or might do?"

Hyde shrugged. "Neither, now."

"Good point," Helius agreed. Generally, the president didn't interfere in the Games. He had bigger things to worry about, and Helius had never let him down. As long as he got the job done – as long as he put on a good show – Hyde never really bothered with the details. But, every year, there were a few chosen tributes. A few who could not, under any circumstances, be allowed to win.

This year, there were three.

Two of the names made sense. The third was a bit of a mystery to him, but he knew better than to ask why. Just as he appreciated the fact that Hyde didn't micromanage the Games, he did his best not to get involved in the political side of things. If a tribute needed to be brought down for the greater good, he didn't really have any interest in why. His job was to make sure it was interesting.

Usually, he didn't even have to interfere. The more dangerous, destructive tributes had a habit of sealing their own fates. Occasionally, he'd had to step in and take sides against a particularly tricky tribute. The boy from Seven fifteen years ago. The boy from Twelve three years ago. They had been more stubborn than most, but, in the end, he had won.

The Capitol always won.

* * *

><p>"<em>Ignore the propaganda. Focus on what you see."<em>_  
><em>


	19. Training: What He Appears

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Due to word-sprinting to finish NaNoWriMo (ending up with 50699 words during November) I have the next couple of chapters mostly written (but largely unedited so far) so the next few updates should be pretty quick.

* * *

><p><strong>Training Day One<br>****What He Appears**

* * *

><p><strong>Calissa Hart, 18<br>****District Four**

"I would start with One and Two."

Calissa glanced up at Naomi, surprised, as the two of them sat down for breakfast. "Why? None of them have trained – not really. You could tell that from the reapings."

"None of the outer district tributes have, either," Naomi pointed out. "And you have to start somewhere. Tributes from One and Two may be able to think like Careers, even if they're not used to acting like them. And even if they don't, their mentors will, and they'll be encouraging their tributes to do the same. I doubt most of them would know what to do with a tribute who wasn't acting like a Career."

"Would you?"

Naomi smiled a little. "Probably not. Why do you think I chose you rather than the other two?"

"They're the reason I was questioning starting with the Career districts," Calissa pointed out. Her district partners were friendly enough, but neither of them was Career material. What if the others were the same?

"That's why I said 'start with,'" Naomi nodded. "If you don't find anyone from One or Two who would be a good ally, branch out. Look for older, stronger tributes, but don't rule anyone out based solely on age. And remember, you're probably the only tribute in the arena with more than minimal training. Let them know it. You can pretty much choose whoever you want; they'd be stupid to refuse."

"And if they do?" Calissa asked.

Naomi shrugged. "Their loss. Careers or their allies have won the last four Games; they should know their chances are better with you."

Their chances. Calissa picked at her breakfast. That was how others would see her: as a way to improve their own chances. But she didn't want to improve _their _chances; she wanted to improve _hers_. If she was really the best-trained tribute in the arena, were her chances better on her own?

Probably not. A few times, a Career had broken off from the pack and decided to go it alone. That usually made them the first target, since the other Careers saw them as the greatest threat. But if there wasn't a pack in the first place…

No. No, she would need someone – at least at first. There were thirty-six of them. If she struck out on her own, one of the groups was sure to notice and target her. One on one, she could hold her own against any of them. But two on one? Three on one? No, it would be better to have someone on her side.

At least at first.

* * *

><p><strong>Adrian Mors, 18<br>****District Two**

She was watching them.

Adrian glanced over at Simone, who had joined him at the hand-to-hand combat station. She had noticed the girl, as well – the girl from Four, standing at the spear station nearby, but paying more attention to the two of them than to the trainer. Simone nodded, acknowledging her presence, then turned back to her training.

Adrian did the same, quickly losing himself in the trainer's instructions, following his advice to the letter. A few years ago, he would have hated following orders. But he had grown in the years since he had been kicked out of the academy, and now that his life was on the line, he was able to muster the focus and concentration that he hadn't possessed then.

Even the trainer seemed impressed. "This isn't your first time fighting, is it."

It wasn't. He'd fought before – a tussle here and there on the streets. Nothing organized. Nothing all that dangerous. But there was no harm in pretending otherwise – at least for now. "I've had a bit of training," he agreed, hoping that if he could put up a good enough act, the trainer might show him a few more advanced techniques.

"I thought as much," said a voice behind him. The girl from Four was standing there, smiling a little. She held out her hand. "Calissa Hart."

He shook it. "Adrian Mors."

"District Two, right?" Calissa asked, though, from the tone of her voice, she already knew the answer. When he nodded, she smiled a little. "You're a Career?"

It took all of Adrian's self-control not to burst out laughing. If only Mortimer could see this. "That we are," he agreed. "Both of us." He waved Simone over. "Simone, Calissa. Calissa, Simone. She's here looking for allies."

"I never said—" Calissa started.

Adrian shrugged, cutting her off. "It's perfectly fine. There don't seem to be too many of us this year; might as well stick together. As long as that's okay with you, Simone." He turned to his district partner, silently begging her to play along.

Simone nodded agreeably. "I suppose she can join us, if it's all right with you."

"Fine with me," Adrian agreed. "What do you say, Calissa?"

For a moment, Calissa's face betrayed her bewilderment. She had come over to ask them to join _her_, not the other way around. But the expression passed quickly, once again masked by confidence. "I'd love to."

As the three of them went back to training, Adrian caught Simone smiling gratefully at him. He hadn't needed to include her, but he'd done it, anyway. She probably thought he was being kind.

But he hadn't done it out of kindness. Together, the two of them – trained or not – outnumbered Calissa. If there was a disagreement, that put the two of them in a position of authority, a position to determine the direction the group would go.

And that could mean the difference between life and death.

* * *

><p><strong>Dewan Rutledge, 15<br>****District Two**

They were watching him.

Dewan flung another knife at the dummy, missing again – but this time only by a few inches. He was still rusty, but it was coming back to him.

Not quickly enough, though. The girl from Four and his own district partners had been watching him, but the three of them quickly went back to their own stations. Dismissing him. Maybe because he was younger. Maybe because he had missed a few targets in a row. Either way, the message was clear: They were no longer interested in him.

The joke was on them.

Maybe Adrian and Simone were fooling the other tributes, but not him. Mortimer had seemed confident that they hadn't been training. They were putting up an act – just like he was. A good one, to be sure, but, once the Games actually started, it would fall apart. As for the girl from Four, if she was stupid enough to buy their act, he probably didn't want her as an ally, anyway.

Dewan turned his attention back to the knives and threw another one, this time striking the dummy in the chest. He threw another. And another. Now in a rhythm, he was hitting the target more than he was missing. But they still weren't watching him.

But someone else was.

Dewan could see him out of the corner of his eye – one of the outer-district boys. Five or Six, maybe? There were so many of them, it was hard to remember. Maybe the boy would introduce himself so he wouldn't have to ask…

Sure enough, within minutes, the boy had joined him, throwing a few knives and actually managing to get two of them to stick. Dewan smiled. "Not bad."

"Not bad yourself," the boy agreed. "I'm Luke. District Six."

"Dewan, District Two."

"I thought so," Luke nodded. "Looked like you've trained before. Vernon's taught me a thing or two, myself."

"Your mentor?"

Luke smiled a little. "And my father. He said I should think about joining the Careers."

Dewan grinned. "You've come to the right place."

Luke cocked an eyebrow. "Your district partners—"

Dewan shook his head. "Not trained, according to Mortimer – and he runs the academy, so he should know. The _real_ Career pack is standing right in front of you." He held out his hand.

"And you're more than welcome to join it."

* * *

><p><strong>Luke Marsanskis, 17<br>****District Six**

He hoped he'd made the right choice.

Luke put on a smile as he shook Dewan's hand, but he still had his doubts. The boy had confidence, to be sure, but did he really know what he was doing?

Then again, Luke wasn't entirely sure what he was doing himself. Vernon had suggested trying to work his way into the Career pack, but which one? Dewan was forming one group. His district partners were forming another with one of the girls from Four, but Dewan seemed confident that his district partners, at least, didn't have any real training. The other two tributes from Four seemed to be working together over at the sword station, but neither of them seemed particularly skilled with one; they seemed more interested in having a bit of fun.

But he wasn't here to have fun.

Of the three, Dewan seemed like the best option. But the two of them didn't make much of a pack. "Maybe we should look for a few more allies," Luke suggested.

Dewan seemed receptive to that. "Sounds good. What are your district partners like?"

Luke cringed. "Disturbing. And yours are already occupied. So let's try someone else."

"Did you have someone in mind?"

Luke nodded. "Actually, yes." He nodded towards the snare station, where the girl from Three was focused on a trap she was making. "Her name's Natasha Kovaćić. Vernon noticed her while we were watching the reapings. There was a Kovaćić during his Games; apparently, some of them actually train for it. Not all of them, but there's a chance." A family name wasn't much to go on, but it was something.

Dewan nodded his agreement, and the two of them headed for the snare station and sat down next to Natasha, who smiled a little as if pleasantly surprised. "Something I can help you with?"

Luke smiled back. "Actually, yes. We're looking for allies, and my mentor speaks very highly of the Kovaćić family. Rumor has it that some of you train for the Games." It was mostly a lie, but it sounded nice. In fact, Vernon had described the Kovaćićs who trained for the Games as 'glory-seeking, mindless idiots' … but that was his opinion of Careers in general, despite his suggestion that Luke ally with them. They were useful, but, in his opinion, quite deluded.

Natasha, on the other hand, seemed to know what she was doing. He caught a look of disgust on her face when he mentioned the members of her family who had trained for the Games, but she quickly covered it up. "As a matter of fact, I _have_ trained a bit," she agreed. "Not as much as you, I'm sure, being the son of a victor and all."

Luke blinked. How did she know that? Had Miriam told her? Was the fact that Vernon had adopted him and his brothers common knowledge? Or had she figured it out on her own?

"And District Two," she continued, still smiling sweetly. "You were probably planning to volunteer on your own in a few years, weren't you."

Luke had a feeling Dewan hadn't planned on doing anything of the sort, but the boy nodded anyway, playing along. "Sounds like the three of us would work pretty well together," he suggested nonchalantly.

Luke glanced from one to the other, hoping Dewan was right.

* * *

><p><strong>Hogan Graham, 18<br>****District Ten**

None of them knew what they were doing.

Hogan watched the pair from Two and the girl from Four at the hand-to-hand combat station. The girl from Four clearly had some training, but the other two didn't really know what they were doing.

Still, they looked like the most promising alliance so far. Certainly better than the pair from Four who were goofing around with the swords. Marginally better than the boy from Two, girl from Three, and boy from … Six, maybe? A hodge-podge alliance, and he wanted no part of it. But these three were a bit more promising. And if they weren't quite as good as he was – well, all the better.

Because the truth was that none of them had his experience. Maybe one or two of them had trained, sure, but he made his living by fighting. His family's survival depended on him being the best fighter in the ring. Until they volunteered for the Games, none of the Careers had that sort of pressure. They were fighting for glory. For the honor of their district.

He was fighting for his families' lives.

And he already knew what that felt like. He already knew what it was to have something on the line during a fight. That gave him an advantage, even over the Careers. They had trained in an academy. He had trained on the streets.

There wouldn't be an academy in the arena.

Hogan made his way over to their station. He'd been avoiding the fighting stations. What was he really going to learn in the next three days that would teach him more than his years of street fighting had? But if it would help him find allies…

Soon, he and the trainer were locked in combat, the familiar rush of adrenaline overwhelming him, blocking out – if only for a few moments – the knowledge that, soon, he would be fighting not for a pile of coins, but for his life. Some of the other tributes were watching, but Hogan didn't care. He was used to an audience. This was what he was accustomed to.

This was what he was born for.

By the time he was finished, the trainer was a little worse for the wear, but quite pleased to have such an eager student. And he wasn't the only one. The girl from Four was watching with a satisfied smile. Hogan turned and wandered off in the other direction, as if he were headed for one of the other stations. _Three. Two. One._

"Wait. I'd like to talk to you."

* * *

><p><strong>Kinley Arnoult, 18<br>****District Four**

They weren't fooling anyone.

Kinley smiled, watching Barclay swing a sword at another dummy. Anyone watching – and quite a few people were – could tell that they weren't proper Careers. That they'd never done any serious training. That they weren't exactly perfect candidates for forming any sort of Career pack.

In a way, it was good to have that out in the open. Good to have the pressure – the pressure to act like Careers, to pretend to have trained – completely gone. Maybe Mags would be disappointed, but it would never have worked – not for them. It wouldn't really have helped their chances once the Games started, anyway. And if these were, in fact, going to be her last few days, she didn't want to spend them pretending to be a Career.

Barclay had worked up a sweat and was breathing heavily by the time he suggested trying out a different station – maybe one of the survival stations this time. Kinley agreed easily, and they headed for the edible plants station. The girl from Nine was already there, but Barclay plopped down right next to her, anyway. "Mind if we join you?"

The girl smiled a little. "Go right ahead. Just don't eat the blue ones."

Kinley took a seat next to them. "Thanks. I'm Kinley, and this is Barclay."

"Asteria."

Kinley smiled. "You seem to know what you're doing, Asteria."

The girl shrugged, still smiling as if in a daze. "District Nine. Grain. Plants. Sort of our thing. Figured I'd start here, work my way up to something harder."

Barclay nodded. "District Four. Water. Fish. Not really a station for that, so here we are."

The girl laughed lightly. "Well, you're quite welcome to share. Water. Seaweed. Plants. It's sort of the same thing, right?"

Kinley giggled. "I suppose so. We usually don't eat seaweed, though."

Asteria shrugged. "That's all right. We usually don't eat the grain we're picking, anyway. Not supposed to, at least." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Sometimes I sneak some of the stuff that's fallen to the ground, though. I figure it's better than letting the mice get it."

Kinley nodded. "Speaking of mice, nice chariot outfits."

Asteria cringed. "Yeah. You, too."

"I actually liked ours," Barclay shrugged. "They were fun – and that's the point, right?"

Maybe it _was_ the point. Not the point of the Games, certainly, but what good was the tribute parade if they couldn't have a little fun with it? Why not enjoy whatever time they had left – ridiculous costumes and all?

What did they have to lose?

* * *

><p><strong>Asteria Cordey, 16<br>****District Nine**

She just had to keep pretending.

Asteria smiled contentedly as she and her new allies sat down for lunch. She hadn't even been looking for allies, but she wasn't about to say no when the perfect pair had found her, instead. Older, stronger, but still good-natured and fun-loving. What more could she ask for?

It was almost enough to make her forget that, out of the three of them, at least two were going to die.

Almost. It was impossible to forget, but they could choose to ignore it – if only for a little while. When the Games started, everything would change. Every_one_ would change. But for now, for these next few days, they could simply enjoy it.

And, despite the threat of the Games looming over them, there was a lot to enjoy. The food, for one thing, was wonderful. Since they'd sat down for lunch, she had barely stopped stuffing her face. Barclay and Kinley seemed rather amused, but neither said anything. Asteria didn't mind. District Four, after all, was rather well-off. Maybe the other two weren't rich or anything, but they'd probably never had to go without a meal. They were enjoying the food, certainly, but they didn't appreciate a full stomach in quite the same way as she did.

The beds, as well, were softer than anything she'd had back home. The water was warmer. The clothes were more comfortable. Well, except the mouse outfits, but even those hadn't been so bad, now that she thought about it. They were funny, in hindsight. And Barclay was right; fun was the whole point of the tribute parade, wasn't it?

In fact, if it weren't for the whole fighting-to-the-death part of it, she wouldn't mind being here at all.

It wasn't as if her family missed her. Wasn't as if she was missing anything at home. Barclay and Kinley were talking about how much they missed their friends, but Asteria didn't really have anyone. No one to miss. No one who would miss her.

So it was easier for her to pretend – pretend that everything would be all right. That they were simply here to have fun, to get away from the district, to have a good time. It was easier for her to put the Games out of her mind, to ignore the fact that she could be dead in a few days. It was easier to forget.

She wasn't sure whether that was a good thing or not.

* * *

><p><strong>Mercury Helix, 15<br>****District Five**

She was tired of pretending.

Mercury picked at her food, trying to tune out Mirami's enthusiastic chatter about how wonderful the Capitol was. She was trying. Really, she was. She was trying so hard to believe that Mirami was right, that this was all an exciting adventure. But every time, in the back of her mind, the thought resurfaced:

She could be dead soon.

Very soon.

She had done her best to ignore it. To push it aside. And, so far, she had done pretty well. She had enjoyed the train rides – the new food, the new sights, the new places. Even the chariot rides had been fun. But this … this was real. They were training now. Training to fight. Training to survive.

But, despite that, thirty-five of them would die.

And she might be one of them.

"And did you see the pair from Four earlier with the swords?" Mirami gushed. "They were amazing! Maybe we should go talk to them."

That was the last thing she wanted to do. She certainly wasn't a sword expert, but she had seen them earlier, and it didn't really look like they knew what they were doing. But, even if they did, why would Mirami want to go talk to them? If they _were_ Careers, it wasn't as if they would want to ally with a couple of younger girls from District Five.

But when she glanced over at them, she saw they were eating with one of the girls from Nine. That was enough for Mirami. "Let's go introduce ourselves!"

Reluctantly, Mercury followed her over-eager district partner to where the pair from Four and the girl from Nine were sitting. They seemed oddly receptive as Mirami plopped down next to them and started chatting. Mercury took a seat a little ways away and watched, curious.

After a little while, the girl from Four scooted down next to her. "Your district partner's quite a character, isn't she."

Mercury smiled a little. "That's one way of putting it." She didn't want to say anything bad about Mirami. After all, Mercury was usually the one telling people to lighten up, to not take everything so seriously, to look on the bright side.

But, now that it came down to it, there wasn't much of a bright side to the Games.

"I suppose that's one way to cope with all this," the other girl shrugged.

Mercury raised an eyebrow. "You think that's what she's doing? Trying to cope?"

"I think that's what _all_ of us are trying to do. We just have different ways of going about it. Some people cope by taking out their anger and frustration on those dummies. Some people cope by trying to think through every possible scenario before it happens, thinking that they can be prepared for anything. And some of us … well, some of us cope by pretending that everything's all right."

"But it's not all right!" Mercury almost shouted, tears coming to her eyes at last. "None of this is all right! And I'm tired of pretending it is!" She buried her face in her hands, trying not to let the tears show. She didn't want to cry. She didn't want to be angry. This wasn't how she wanted to spend what might be her last few days.

But she couldn't help it any more.

* * *

><p><strong>Mirami Fiyan, 14<br>****District Five**

How could she be crying?

Mirami watched, completely bewildered, as the girl from Four put an arm around Mercury, comforting her. Mirami glanced around at the other tributes. Some of them were watching. Some of them would see. Some of them would immediately target Mercury for her weakness.

Didn't she realize that was how the Games worked? Behind all the strategy and the skills, everything depended on appearance. Everything. Allies, other tributes, sponsors, Gamemakers – they all judged the tributes based on appearances.

And Mercury's was slipping.

None of the others seemed to care. The tributes from Four. The girl from Nine. None of them seemed to realize that this would hurt their image. And what hurt their image, ultimately, would hurt all of them.

Mirami shook her head as she silently left the table. She had been wrong to approach them in the first place. Like Mercury, none of them realized how the Games really worked. She would have to find someone else.

Fortunately, she had plenty of options.

And she had time. There was no need to decide on allies the very first day. In fact, it was probably a mistake to do so. Yes, she could wait. Assess her options. Take as much time as she needed to find the perfect allies.

Or maybe she didn't need to find anyone. If there wasn't anyone else who really understood the rules of the Game, maybe she would be better off going it alone. Sure, she might lose a little ground at the beginning – sponsors tended to choose tributes in larger alliances at the start – but, after a while, they would notice her.

They would have to.

Yes, she would do perfectly fine on her own, she decided, if she couldn't find anyone else. Leaving half of her lunch uneaten, she headed over to the sword station. Maybe they weren't very practical, but they were flashy. And the sponsors loved flashy.

Because that was what it came down to, in the end: giving the audience what they wanted to see. They wanted drama. They wanted excitement. They wanted tributes who were brave and daring and ruthless.

They certainly didn't want to see tributes cry.

* * *

><p><strong>Barclay Mattison, 18<br>****District Four**

He hated seeing people cry.

Barclay wrapped Kinley and Mercury in a big hug. It was the only thing he could do, really. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could say, that would make this better. Nothing that would make it go away. Nothing that would change the fact that most – if not all – of their group would be dead in a matter of weeks.

Asteria quickly joined their group hug, and, for one brief moment, everything seemed all right. If only they could just stay in that moment, that perfect embrace, forever.

If only it could last.

For a long time, they simply sat there, savoring each other's presence as if they had known each other for years. It was hard to believe he had only met Kinley at the reaping, only a few days ago. That he had only known Asteria for a few hours, Mercury for a few minutes. Maybe that didn't matter, because days – and then hours, and then minutes – were all they had left.

No wonder Mercury was crying.

"Let's find a station," Kinley suggested, and they all quickly agreed. Another station. Another distraction. Another way to forget what was coming. Another way to avoid thinking about the inevitable.

But they couldn't just ignore the Games forever.

Barclay followed Kinley over to the fire-starting station. A good choice: something physical that didn't involve ripping dummies to shreds. He and Kinley sat down, and the other two quickly followed.

Did that mean they were the leaders?

He hadn't even thought about that before – who the leader of their alliance was. The two younger girls seemed to be looking to Kinley and him for direction. Was that because they were older? Because they were supposedly Careers? Because there were two of them?

Them. It was so easy to think like that now: to think of Kinley and himself as a team. And the other two seemed to fit perfectly. When Mags had told them to trust their instincts about allies, he had expected to feel some doubt, some question about their intentions. Instead, he felt only their friendship.

He just wished it could last.

* * *

><p><strong>Janardan Fletcher, 18<br>****District Eight**

The pieces were starting to come together.

Fletcher sat back at the camouflage station, blending into the background as if he had painted himself into his surroundings. Alliances were beginning to fall into place – some larger, some smaller. A pair from Four, a girl from Five, and a girl from Nine sat at the fire-starting station. The other girl from Four, a pair from Two, and one of the boys from Ten were trying out the archery station. The other boy from Two, the girl from Three, and the boy from Six were slashing some dummies apart with knives.

A few pairs of district partners seemed to be working together, as well. The two girls from Six. A girl and a boy from Seven. A girl and a boy from Eleven. The younger pair from Twelve. One of the boys from Three was following the other around, but he didn't seem particularly enthusiastic about it. Less of an alliance and more of a lack of initiative, an unwillingness to strike out on his own immediately.

And then there were the others. The outliers. The loners – at least for now. And, to him, candidates. Potential recruits. He had been watching them, and had his eye on a few, but he wasn't ready to make his move.

Not just yet.

He had time. Let the supposedly stronger tributes pick who they wanted as allies. He would take the leftovers. The misfits. The strangers and the outcasts. And he would turn them into the perfect alliance.

Because that was what Godfather had done for him.

Fletcher had been trying to pickpocket him when they met. But instead of turning him in, Godfather had taken him – and several other young street urchins – under his wing. He had fed them. Protected them. Trained them. Under his guidance, they had become a family. They had grown closer than brothers, and that bond would last until the day they died.

Now it was his turn. His turn to take those who had been rejected and bind them together. It was the only thing left to do. Maybe the best thing he knew how to do. His work as the Robber Prince was impressive, to be sure, but he was even prouder of his friends and the bond they shared.

But he also knew how much he relied on them. Without them – without the real story behind his exploits – what was he? He was a leader – an inspiration, he hoped – but, without the others, that meant nothing.

So he would find others. Not replacements – the others were still alive, after all. Surrogates. An extended family. Another branch of the Brotherhood.

And he knew exactly where to start.

* * *

><p><strong>Simone Lorance, 18<br>****District Two**

"How long can you keep it up?"

Simone glanced up at Vester, surprised. It was the first he'd spoken during supper. The others had left a few minutes ago. Was this something he hadn't wanted to ask in front of them?

"Keep what up?" Simone asked.

Vester shrugged. "Pretending to be a Career. You're not fooling anyone – especially Adrian. Sure, he's not trained, but he's got years of manual labor behind him. The girl from Four is almost certainly trained. The boy from Ten has some muscle, and you can bet he didn't get it from just working in the fields. How long do you think you can hold your own with this group?"

Simone looked away. Vester's words cut deeper than she wanted to admit. She had thought she was doing fairly well for herself, finding allies who were stronger and more competent than she was. Had she been going about it all wrong? "You think I can't?" she asked.

Vester shook his head. "That's not what I said. I'm asking how long you're planning to stay with them. Timing is crucial. They're not idiots, Simone; they know – at the moment, at least – that you're the weakest member of the group. And, in some ways, that's good. It means you'll have more protection than if you allied with people who were more at your level. But it has its downsides, too. Everything in the Games does. If they get restless – and they will – they might decide to spice things up by getting rid of the person they see as the weakest link."

"So if I think they're getting bored, I should strike first?"

"Or leave. That's what Elijah did last year, after the bloodbath. He recognized that he wasn't as strong as the Careers, so, once he'd gotten what he needed from them, he left. Killing them – or the ones that were left – came later. He had more sense than to take on all of them at once, and I hope you do, too."

Simone nodded. "I didn't realize you paid that much attention to the Games." From what she'd seen and heard of Vester, she'd pictured him watching the Games half-asleep, with a bottle of wine in one hand and a mug of beer in the other. The idea that he would remember them so clearly was unexpected.

Vester shook his head. "I deserve to watch them, Simone. Every day of them. Every death. Every drop of blood spilled. I had a hand in bringing this about. So I owe it to them to watch. Every one of them haunts me … but maybe some of us deserve to be haunted."

Simone forced down a lump in her throat. If she won, was this her future? Forever haunted by what she had done? Vester had done some terrible things, certainly, but so had nearly every other victor. If he deserved to be haunted, then maybe they did, as well. And maybe she would, too, if she survived this.

But that was better than being dead.

* * *

><p>"<em>Let me pass on to you the one thing I've learned about this place: No one here is exactly what he appears."<em>


	20. Training: At The Time

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **And here's our second day of training. Just a friendly reminder that the bloodbath poll will be up until the end of training, after which a new poll will be posted.

* * *

><p><strong>Training Day Two<br>****At The Time**

* * *

><p><strong>Henri Saunders, 18<br>****District One**

"You can't do this alone."

Henri looked up at Jade as the six of them finished their breakfast. "I'm not joining the Careers."

Jade shrugged. "Who said anything about the Careers? There aren't even that many of them. I'm just saying you should find someone – someone who can help you, someone you can trust."

"Like your allies could trust you?" She was too young to have seen Jade's Games when they were originally broadcast, but she'd seen the replays. Jade had turned on his allies. So had Stellar. So had Scarlet. Half of the people at the table had killed those who had trusted them with their lives.

"He's not saying you should trust them completely," Elaine shrugged. "Or forever. Obviously, only one person can win. You want it to be you. They want it to be them. No sort of alliance is going to last forever."

"So why start one in the first place?" Daedem shrugged. "Why pretend? Why not just admit that we're all enemies who are planning to turn on each other as soon as it's no longer convenient to work together?"

"Because pretending can save your life," Jade pointed out. "If I hadn't pretended to work with my allies, if we had never teamed up in the first place, the Games could have gone very differently. The three of us monopolized the sponsors. Separately, we may not have done so well."

"_They_ didn't do so well as it was," Daedem reasoned. "Sure, joining up can increase the chances that _someone _in your alliance will win, but there's no way of making sure that person will be _you_."

"That's why it's important to watch your back – even around your allies," Stellar added. "Allies aren't an excuse to let your guard down. They're not a security net in case you happen to not be paying attention. You _always _have to be on alert. But sometimes it's good to keep the bigger threats close, so you know where they are."

"But the bigger threats aren't going to want to ally with someone like me," Henri insisted. Despite everything, their mentors were still thinking like Careers. Still treating them like Careers. Still expecting the other tributes to accept them as allies without question, and count themselves lucky.

Jade nodded. "You're right. You need to find allies who will suit you. Look for someone you can work with. Someone who looks like they know what they're doing in some aspect – not necessarily weapons. Look for survival skills – and, for that, you probably want to look to the outer districts. Seven for fire skills. Nine or Eleven for plants. Ten for knowledge about animals. But don't limit yourself to that; sometimes other districts will surprise you. They've all got a victor or two, after all – all except Twelve. But don't count them out, either. If we ever have a year where the arena is a coal mine, they might do a bit better," he finished with a smile.

Henri cringed. It wasn't Twelve's fault that they were the smallest, poorest district, that their tributes were usually thin, poor, and starving. They didn't choose that any more than she had chosen to be born in District One. They wouldn't have chosen Twelve. She wouldn't have chosen One.

And none of them would have chosen the Games.

* * *

><p><strong>Radiance Allor, 17<br>****District Nine**

She was certain she had misunderstood.

Radiance stared at the girl from District One who had joined her at the knot-tying station and introduced herself as Henri. "You want _me_ as an ally? Are you sure?"

Henri nodded. "I'm absolutely sure."

"But you're from District One. You're supposed to be…" She wasn't quite sure how to finish that without sounding rude. Supposed to be trained. Arrogant, or at least competent. Most of the other tributes from One, Two, and Four had found allies who seemed strong and confident. Why had Henri come to _her_?

Henri shook her head. "I'm not them. I haven't trained. I don't want to be here. To be perfectly honest, I hate the Games, and I don't even much care for District One. But here I am. And here you are. And it seems like we could both use a little help."

It was hard to argue with that logic. "But you're sure you want … me?"

Henri nodded. "Absolutely."

"Why?"

"Because you keep asking that question."

Radiance blinked, confused. "What?"

"You keep asking why anyone would want you as an ally. You're wondering what anyone would see in you. That tells me everything I need to know."

"It does?"

Henri nodded. "It tells me you're not going to stab me in the back, because you're so grateful to have an ally in the first place. It tells me no one else has offered, which means I don't have a whole lot of competition. And, to be honest, it tells me that you could use a little boost of confidence."

Confidence. Right. As if it were that easy. As if she could add confidence with a few words the same way she added a few inches to her height by putting on a pair of heels. Emotions weren't that simple.

It wasn't as if she'd never tried. But it was hard to feel confident, hard to feel good about herself, when she spent night after night paying for a careless mistake made when she was younger. Hard to feel confident knowing that there was no one who would truly miss her if she didn't come back. Oh, her family would notice, and a few of her clients might comment on the fact that their favorite girl was missing, but they would get over it. They would find someone else. No one was irreplaceable.

But, at the same time, she appreciated the gesture. The girl was trying to help, and she knew she should be grateful for that, at least. Crispin had suggested she find allies, but she hadn't quite been sure how to go about it, and had spent the first day going from station to station by herself. Asteria had seemed to manage pretty well, and Dennar was at the edible plants station with a boy from Eight. And now she had an ally herself.

Maybe it wasn't as complicated as she'd thought.

* * *

><p><strong>Enzo Farnese, 12<br>****District Eight**

"Mind if I join you?"

Enzo glanced up, surprised, from the edible plants he'd been trying to sort. The boy next to him was perhaps a year or two older, but Enzo couldn't remember which district he was from. Nine or Ten, maybe. "Go right ahead," he sighed, frustrated.

The boy took a seat. "Having trouble?"

Enzo smiled wryly. "What gave it away?"

The boy nodded. "I guess they don't have a lot of plants in … Eight, right?"

"Yeah. I'm Enzo."

"Dennar. District Nine."

District Nine. That explained it. "I guess you know all about plants, then."

Dennar shrugged. "Not as much as you'd think. I mean, I know the ones I see a lot of – the ones we grow – but a lot of these are unfamiliar."

Enzo shook his head. "I just know the ones I've seen at the dyers shop … but I never really bothered to ask which of those are edible and which ones aren't. I just can't seem to get it."

Dennar nodded. "Maybe you should try something else, then."

"Like what?"

Dennar shrugged. "Anything. There are so many stations, there must be _something_ that you'd be good at. It's just a matter of finding it. And there's no point in spending hours trying to learn something that doesn't come easily to you when you could be learning a few things you'd pick up quickly."

That made sense. Both of his district partners seemed to have found something they were good at. Fletcher was circling the weapons stations, trying a little of this and a little of that. Shilo was at the throwing knives station with one of the girls from Five. Enzo had been sticking with the survival stations, figuring they were more useful. "But isn't it important to know which plants are edible?"

"Sure. But so are lots of other things. And if you were to find someone else who knew a bit more about plants, and you knew about something else, you could help each other."

Enzo looked up hopefully. "Someone like you?"

Dennar nodded. "Someone like me."

"Are you asking me to be your ally?"

Dennar thought for a moment. "I guess I am. What do you think?"

Enzo hesitated. Carolina had recommended trying to find allies, but he had simply assumed that no one would want to ally with a twelve-year-old who had cried at the reaping and didn't know a thing about weapons. Or plants. Or much of anything besides fabric dyes. He wasn't strong. He wasn't fast. He wasn't an amazing strategist. What did he have to offer?

And yet Dennar seemed genuine. There was nothing suspicious about his actions or his words. If he was looking for people to stab in the back, Enzo wouldn't be the first or smartest choice for that. If he was looking for allies he could use and then betray, Enzo wouldn't be much use in the first place.

"Why would you want me as an ally?" Enzo asked at last.

Dennar hesitated, but then decided to answer honestly. "Because you looked like you needed one."

Enzo couldn't exactly argue with that.

* * *

><p><strong>Alasdair Bryant, 12<br>****District Three**

He didn't want to keep following Eigen.

Alasdair glanced tentatively around the room, trying to decide. Trying to work up the courage to leave his district partner's side, to branch out on his own. But where would he go? Eigen had done nothing but drag him from station to station the day before, taunting and goading him until he finally made an attempt with an unfamiliar weapon, then insulting him when he had failed miserably. Eigen didn't deserve his help.

But, as much as he hated the idea of staying with Eigen, as much as he wanted to find someone else, he wasn't sure where to start. Wasn't sure how to go about finding someone else, someone he could trust, someone who would want his help.

Because, as rude as Eigen had been, at least he seemed to like having Alasdair around. Maybe he appreciated the company. Maybe he just needed someone to boss around. But, whatever the reason, in some way, he was being useful. He was fulfilling some sort of purpose.

Just not the purpose he wanted.

"Mind if I join you?"

Alasdair nearly jumped, whirling around to see another boy. District Nine, he was pretty sure. "Suit yourself," Eigen shrugged, turning his attention back to the knives he was throwing at a dummy. Alasdiar ducked to the side, certain that Eigen was the one the boy had been talking to.

"Actually, I was talking to you," the boy said with a smile, turning to Alasdair. "I was wondering if you'd like to join us at the snares station."

Alasdair cocked an eyebrow. "Who's us?"

The boy smiled. "I'm Dennar. Enzo's waiting over at the station."

Eigen smiled wryly. "Perfect. Another twelve-year-old. Go set some snares together. Maybe by the end of the third day, you'll be able to catch a little mouse." He shot Dennar a pointed look, letting him know that no one had forgotten their chariot outfits.

Dennar shrugged off the remark. "If you'd like to join us … just come on over." He turned and headed back to the snare station.

Alasdair glanced around again, unsure. He looked at Eigen. Then back at Dennar. It seemed a bit too good to be true – that someone else would want him as an ally, without having even met him. But, given the choice between the two of them, he knew who he would rather help.

He knew where he wanted to be.

* * *

><p><strong>Elaine Willis, 14<br>****District One**

She didn't seem afraid.

Elaine watched as the girl from Ten took another swing at one of the dummies with a makeshift blade she had fashioned from a knife and one of the branches from the fire-starting session. It was a crude weapon, but it extended her reach, which needed all the help it could get.

Elaine wished she had thought of that.

Jade had suggested looking to the outer districts for allies, and, even though he wasn't her mentor, it seemed like a good idea. What did she have to lose?

The girl glanced over as she approached. "May I join you?" Elaine asked, making a point of being polite, just as she'd always been taught. Didn't want to scare off potential allies by being rude, after all.

The girl nodded. "Of course. I'm Grace."

"Elaine."

"Nice to meet you, Elaine."

Elaine cocked an eyebrow. It was just a polite formality, of course, but it certainly wasn't 'nice' to meet anyone in the Games. It wasn't 'nice' that they were here, that they would be trying to kill each other in a few days. None of this was 'nice.' But, nonetheless, she felt the need to say something. "You, too."

"The circumstances could be better, of course," Grace agreed, as if she'd read Elaine's mind. "But, still, you have to admit there's a part of this that's … almost exciting. New people, new places, new experiences – it's almost an adventure."

"An adventure," Elaine repeated. "Maybe it is, but it's one I'd rather not take."

Grace nodded. "It's one I'd rather not take right now, as well."

"Right now?"

"Well, if you think about it, death is a path we all have to take eventually," Grace reasoned. "Maybe that's all it is, in the end – just another path. Just another adventure." Elaine's shock must have registered on her face, because Grace quickly backtracked. "Like I said, though, it's not an adventure I want to take anytime soon."

Elaine nodded warily. But she had already started to back off. Maybe this had been a mistake, coming over here. Maybe District Ten wasn't such a good choice, after all. "Well, it was … nice meeting you," Elaine said quietly before slipping away. Grace didn't try to stop her.

Once she was alone again, Elaine let out a small sigh. Grace was friendly enough, certainly, but Elaine wasn't ready to ally with someone who thought that death was just another adventure, just another fork in the road where thirty-five of them went one way, and one went another.

Then again, would it have been so bad to have an ally who didn't mind dying? After all, that was what her allies would have to do, anyway, if she was going to survive.

Elaine pushed the thought from her head. Someone who treated death so lightly might not have had any hesitation about killing her, either. After all, it was just another direction her path could take.

But it wasn't a direction that she wanted to go.

* * *

><p><strong>Grace Sawyer, 14<br>****District Ten**

That had definitely been the wrong thing to say.

Grace silently cursed her big mouth as she went back to swinging her makeshift blade. She would have to be more careful. She was used to her family, where discussions like that – discussions about life and death, right and wrong, their own lives and a greater purpose – were not only accepted, but rather commonplace. It was easy to forget that not everyone thought that way.

And not everyone _wanted_ to think that way.

And now she'd scared off a potential ally, the first tribute to approach her since training began. Maybe it was for the best – it was only a matter of time before something like that had come up – but it certainly didn't feel that way now. All that mattered now was that she'd been rejected, and she had no idea of where to go from here.

_So find someone else who's been rejected._

Grace glanced around from station to station, until she spotted the girl from Twelve at the fire-starting station. That caught her by surprise; the girl's district partner had been with her earlier. But now he was over at the spear-throwing station with the older boy from Twelve and one of the boys from Eleven. Was it possible he had abandoned her?

Mustering her courage, Grace headed over to the fire-starting station. "Mind if I join you?"

The girl looked up, surprised. "Fine with me. I'm Blythe."

"Grace." She sat down, and the two of them were soon occupied with trying to set fire to some dry leaves. "Harder than it looks," Grace commented.

"It's easier with matches," Blythe agreed. "But you can't always count on having matches."

Grace nodded. Matches would only come from the Cornucopia or from sponsors – sponsors who didn't usually flock to support tributes from Ten and Twelve. "How long have you been at this?"

Blythe shrugged. "Long enough to know that I'm not very good at it. Brennan's a bit better – he caught on quickly, so he figured he'd go try out a different station for a while."

"Then you're not … on your own?"

Blythe hesitated. "I'm not sure. Our other district partner, Francis, found an ally – the boy from Eleven – but I'm pretty sure they don't want me with them. So Brennan is … deciding, I guess. And there's not really any reason for him to pick me." She shook her head. "I'm not sure _I'd _pick me."

Grace held back one of her father's lectures on self-confidence. "What if it were 'us'?" she asked before she'd really had a chance to think it through.

"Us?" Blythe repeated.

Grace nodded. "If there were two of us – if we were allies – allying with us would be an advantage, as far as numbers go." Never mind that they were still fourteen years old. Never mind that neither of them had any sort of experience. And never mind that it meant she may very end up with two tributes from the smallest, poorest district as her allies.

Blythe thought for a moment. "Why would you want to help me?"

Grace thought through a few answers before deciding on the most honest. Words that had comforted her in the past. The answer her father would have given.

"Why not?"

* * *

><p><strong>Blythe Ayers, 14<br>****District Twelve**

"Why not?"

Blythe repeated the words, confused. "Why not? Maybe because we're in a fight to the death, and you want the best allies you can find. Maybe because you want someone who can actually help you fight. Maybe because you want to survive the next couple of weeks."

Grace nodded. "Of course I do. But so do you. So does everyone. But only one of us is going to get what we want. Only one of us can win."

Blythe cringed. She didn't need to be reminded. Silas had made a point of telling them practically every time he saw them that at least two of them were going to die. Maybe he was trying to be realistic, to slowly introduce them to the idea so that it wouldn't be so much of a shock when it happened. But that didn't make it any easier to hear.

It didn't make it any better.

Then again, nothing was going to. No matter what sort of mentor she had, no matter what sort of allies she managed to find, nothing was going to make the Games any better. Nothing was going to make them go away.

But, before she could respond, Brennan returned. He sat down next to Blythe, clearly frustrated. "What's wrong?" she asked.

Brennan shook his head. "I went over there to see if I could try to change their minds – about letting us join them."

"The other boy didn't want us?" Blythe asked.

"Actually, it was Francis. He doesn't like how easily we're playing along with Silas. He thinks we're immature. He doesn't think we're taking this seriously."

Now _that_ surprised her. "He said that?"

"No, but it was pretty obvious the other boy would've been okay with having us. Francis said…" He hesitated.

"Go ahead," Blythe said quietly, looking away. "I can take it."

Brennan bit his lip. "Francis said he was okay with me … but not you."

Blythe nodded. "And what did you tell him?"

"I told him I'd think about it," Brennan admitted.

Well, it wasn't a yes. But it wasn't a no, either. "I found another ally," Blythe offered, trying to sound cheerful. "So if you join us, it'll be three. But if you'd rather go with Francis … I'd still have someone."

"And you'd be okay with that?" Brennan asked.

Of course not. But what choice did she really have? "I'd understand it," she nodded. Francis was older, stronger. So was his ally. Why would he choose her?

Brennan nodded. "That settles it, then."

Blythe looked away. "Fine. Go back to your new allies."

Brennan shook his head. "You misunderstood me. I meant that settles it: I'm staying with you."

"Both of us?" Grace asked hopefully.

Brennan nodded. "Both of you."

* * *

><p><strong>Brennan Aldaine, 15<br>****District Twelve**

He'd made the right choice.

Brennan finally mustered a smile as he, Blythe, and Grace headed to the tables for lunch. He'd been avoiding the decision ever since Francis had told him he was only welcome as an ally if he left Blythe behind. He understood Francis' reasoning, of course. One younger tribute may have been tolerable. Two, in Francis' mind, would have been a burden.

But the fact that Blythe understood that, as well – and had been willing to let him go – had made up his mind. She wasn't as young and naïve as Francis wanted to think. She understood how the Games worked. She knew what Francis was looking for in an ally, and she knew she wasn't it.

And, the more Brennan thought about it, the more convinced he was that he wasn't, either.

If he had joined Francis and Lynher, he would have spent the whole Games – or, at least, as long as their alliance survived – feeling like the weakest link. Like the one the others might decide to leave behind – or even take out themselves – if things got a little rough. He would never have been able to stop looking over his shoulder, wondering if he was pulling his own weight, wondering if he was carrying enough of the load to be worthy of staying in their alliance.

But here, with these two, he didn't have to worry about that, because now _he_ was the oldest. _He_ was the one they would look to. He would carry his own weight, and then some, because that's what would have to happen in order for them to survive. He would be the one helping _them_.

Them. Three of them now. Brennan studied their new ally as the three of them sat down for lunch. He'd seen her before, on the first day – usually by herself. Her district partners were older – two boys, one seventeen and the other eighteen. She was in the same situation they were.

But was that enough for them to trust each other?

Brennan shook the thought from his head. Blythe trusted her; that was enough. For now, at least. There would be time – time for him to get to know her, to decide if he could really trust her.

But he already had a feeling the answer was yes. He had been watching them enough to know that Grace was the one who had approached Blythe. She had been comforting her when he'd returned. She seemed to genuinely care about Blythe, and that was good enough for him.

Only after Brennan had stuffed several mouthfuls of food down his throat did he realize that Grace wasn't eating yet, but standing in silence, staring at one of the walls. Almost as if she were staring _through _one of the walls. Blythe glanced at Brennan, who shrugged. Odd, but harmless, and it was probably better not to ask personal questions when they'd only been allies for a few minutes.

Brennan swallowed another mouthful of food. Maybe he didn't know much about Grace, but it wasn't as if he knew much more about Blythe. Sure, they came from the same district, but, a few days ago, they had been perfect strangers. If not for the Games, they may never have met. And yet here they were, drawn together for the worst reason – but maybe the oldest reason of all: survival.

But how long could they stay that way?

* * *

><p><strong>Corvo Arion, 17<br>****District Ten**

"What do you want?"

Corvo looked up as a boy slid into the seat across from his. District Eight, he was pretty sure. Corvo had seen him the day before, always on the edge of the group, always watching the others. Looking for targets, or looking for allies?

Maybe they were the same thing, in the end.

"What do you mean?" Corvo asked, trying to decide what to make of the boy's question.

"What do you want?" the boy repeated.

"What do I want to eat? What do I want to do after lunch?"

"What do you want?"

Corvo shook his head. "I want to be left alone."

"Is that what you really want?"

Corvo glared. "Yes."

The boy shrugged. "All right." He got up and started to leave.

Corvo watched him, confused. "Wait!"

The boy smiled a little. "Yes?"

Corvo shook his head. "I want what everyone here wants. I want to win. I want to live."

The boy nodded. "Go on."

"Go on?"

"Sure. After that, then what? What do you want?"

"I want to go home. I want to finish … something I started."

"What do you want?"

Corvo glared. "I want to find my parents' murderers. I want to see that justice is served. And I want to be there when it happens. I want my revenge." Maybe not the best thing to tell a perfect stranger, he realized after he'd said it, but what did he really have to lose?

"And then what?"

The question caught him off-guard. He'd never really thought about that before – about what he would do after he'd accomplished his goal. "After that, I … I don't know," he admitted.

The boy nodded. "I see. Would you like to join me?"

"Join you?" Corvo echoed, confused. The boy wanted to be allies based on one strange conversation?

The boy held out his hand. "I'm Fletcher. And I think we'd make a good team – along with a few others."

Corvo eyed him hesitantly. He hadn't really thought about allies; he'd assumed that he would be going it alone. But there was something about the boy – something that told Corvo not to get on his bad side. Not just yet, at least. Corvo nodded a little, then shook Fletcher's hand.

"Who else did you have in mind?"

* * *

><p><strong>Viktoria Halisent, 16<br>****District Seven**

"What do you want?"

Viktoria looked up from the axe she was swinging. "Pardon?"

The boy beside her smiled a little – the same mischievous smile she had seen so often on her brother's face. He stepped between her and the dummy she had been demolishing. "What do you want?"

"I want you to get out of the way."

The boy shrugged and stepped aside, allowing her to swing again. "What do you want?"

"What do you mean?"

"What do you want?"

What _did_ she want? She glanced around at the groups that were forming. She wanted company. She wanted an ally. She didn't want to be alone in the arena. But she didn't want to tell _him_ that. Unless…

Was he a possibility? She'd seen him talking to the boy from Ten earlier. Both of them seemed a bit strange, but they also seemed capable. And what did she have to lose by telling him? "I want allies – ones who know what they're doing, ones I can trust. Are you volunteering?"

"What do you want?"

"I just told you."

"Why do you want allies?"

"Because I want to win."

"Why? What do you want?"

"Why do I want to win?"

"Yes."

Viktoria eyed him skeptically. "Because I don't want to die?"

"What _do_ you want?"

"I want to live. I want to go back home to my brother."

"And then what?"

Then what? Even if she went home, things would never be the same. Everyone in the district would know her; their conning days would be over. Of course, they would never need the money again, but it had never really been about the money. It had been about the thrill. And, for better or worse, that was gone.

What did she want? "I want everything back," she admitted. "I want to go home, and I want everything back the way it was. I want to go back to my life as if the Games never happened – but that can't happen."

"What do you want?"

Viktoria glared. She wanted the impossible. She wanted to turn back the clock, to stop her name from being drawn, to send someone else – _anyone _else – to the Capitol in her place. She wanted her life back. She wanted it to be truly hers again, and no one else's. "I want…" She looked away. "I'm not sure."

The boy nodded. "Fair enough. But I can help with the first part. You said you wanted allies. Would you like to join us? Me and Corvo?"

Would she _like_ to? No. Absolutely not. They were odd – the pair of them – and this boy was as annoying as Saoirse and Jason – if not worse. But, at the moment, they were the best option she had.

"I would love to."

* * *

><p><strong>Niles Avdeyev, 16<br>****District Five**

"What do you want?"

Niles hoped his tone would be enough to scare away the boy who had joined him at the spear station. But, instead, the boy's face broke into an odd grin. "I was just about to ask you the same thing: What do you want?"

"What?" Niles asked.

"What do you want?"

"I want you to leave me alone."

"Is that what you really want?"

"No," Niles admitted.

"Then what do you want?"

"This is pointless."

"Yes, it is. What do you want?"

Niles glanced around, worried for a moment that someone might hear him. But that was pointless, as well. His family had already been arrested. Harakuise was planning to execute them. And he was about to be sent in the Games. What more could they do to him?

What did he have to lose?

"All right," he shrugged. "You want to know what I want? My family was arrested when I was reaped – if you can even call it that. The reaping was rigged – I'm sure of it – and they're all going to be executed when I die. I want them set free. I want to go home. I want them all safe."

"And then what?"

Niles smirked. "_Then_? Then I want the head of the monster that did this to them. I want Harakuise dead. I want the Peacekeepers dead."

"What else?"

Niles scoffed. "What _else_? Well, why don't you just kill the president and tear down the Capitol while you're at it? What do you _think_ I want? I want equality, like my father has always wanted. I want the power back in the hands of those who deserve it, those who won't abuse it, those who will use it to provide for everyone – not just those lucky enough to be born in the Capitol. _That's _what I want. Can you do that for me, Eight?"

The boy smiled. But not the same mischievous smile as before. A darker, deeper, and much more daring smile. "Thank you, Niles. I'd almost forgotten what one of your kind looks like."

"My kind?"

The boy nodded. "The kind of person who can see the bigger picture. The picture beyond the Games, beyond our own little lives." He held out his hand. "Janardan Fletcher, at your service. Though I'm sometimes known by a different name: the Robber Prince."

Niles wasn't sure whether to laugh or scream at him for so obviously mocking him. "The Robber Prince is a story."

"We're all stories, in the end."

"You're insane."

"Probably. Would you like to join us?"

Niles blinked. "Us?" He had found others willing to believe his story?

Fletcher nodded. "They don't know – who I really am, that is. But you – we're kindred spirits, you and I. Dreamers, radicals, willing to do things others aren't. I would be proud – honored – to have you at my side."

Niles stared. No one had ever told him that before – or anything of the sort. His family and what they stood for were, at best, ignored – at worst, scorned, mocked, ridiculed. And here was the Robber Prince – or, at least, someone delusional enough to believe he was the famous thief – saying he would be honored to have him at his side. Niles finally smiled.

"Then that's exactly where I'll be."

* * *

><p><strong>Dennar Viesennor, 14<br>****District Nine**

"Three tributes, and I have to agree to mentor the idiot."

Dennar looked away as Tobiah glared. "Now, Tobiah—" Crispin started.

"_Now Tobiah _nothing. Look at your tributes. Radiance somehow convinced a girl from District One that she'd be a good ally. Asteria ended up with the pair from Four – well, and a girl from Five, but no one's perfect. But, no. Dennar just _had_ to go and not just agree to an alliance with but _actively seek out_ the weakest and youngest tributes in the entire Games."

Dennar flushed. "Just because they're young doesn't mean—"

"Yes, it does!" Tobiah insisted. "You can take all of that 'we've all got an equal chance' nonsense and shove it out the window, kid. You're already at a disadvantage because of your own age."

Crispin shook his head. "I was only a year older than him when I—"

"But you didn't go around allying with twelve-year-olds! And from Three and Eight, no less. Tell me, Dennar, because I'm curious – are you insane, or are you just suicidal? What could _possibly _have possessed you to make you think that was a good idea?"

Dennar cringed. "I didn't mean to … I just … It just sort of happened, and I couldn't…"

"You couldn't say no," Tobiah finished. "But, eventually, kid, you'll have to. You'll have to say no, and, worse, you'll have to say goodbye. You think you're helping these kids by letting them be your allies, but all you're doing is prolonging the inevitable. How long do you think you'll be able to protect them? All you're doing is postponing their deaths a little longer."

Dennar hesitated for a moment, collecting his thoughts. He looked up at Crispin, who nodded encouragingly. _Say it._

"Isn't that what we're all doing?" he asked at last. "Postponing our deaths? Thirty-five of us, at least. All we're doing is lasting a little longer – a day, a few hours, a few minutes – than we would have otherwise. Anything we do in the Games … for most of us, it's not going to matter. Most of us are going to die, anyway. So if I can do that for them … Well, why not? If I'm going to…" He swallowed hard. "If I'm going to die, what's so wrong with dying trying to help someone?"

"What's wrong with it is that you'll be dying," Tobiah pointed out. "I agreed to be your mentor because I thought you wanted to live, not because you had some delusional ideas about dying with honor and dignity and all that rubbish."

"I do want to live," Dennar insisted. "But there are thirty-six of us. Chances are, I won't."

Crispin shook his head. "Don't start thinking like that, Dennar. Once you do, it's very hard to break the habit." He shot Tobiah a glance. "He still hasn't."

Tobiah whipped his head around, startled. "Excuse me?"

Crispin swallowed hard but held his ground. "Physically, you left the Games, but, mentally, you're still there. Still so worried about surviving that you haven't thought about living. Still convinced that you're not safe, that you can't trust anyone, that no one should trust you. You're right – it's a hard mentality to break. And, in its own way, it's worse than death." He turned back to Dennar. "If allying with twelve-year-olds is what keeps you from slipping into that mindset in the first place, then that's what you should do."

Dennar smiled gratefully. "Thank you."

Crispin nodded. "You're welcome. Tobiah's right about one thing, though. You won't be able to protect them forever. Eventually, they're going to die – and you have to be prepared for that."

Dennar looked away. Crispin was right. What he was trying to do, helping these two boys – it wouldn't last forever. Eventually, he would have to let them go.

He would have to say goodbye.

* * *

><p>"<em>We all do what we do for the same reason: because it seemed like a good idea at the time." <em>


	21. Training: On The Line

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Just a friendly reminder to vote in the bloodbath poll if you haven't done so already. A new poll will be up along with the next chapter.

* * *

><p><strong>Training Day Three<br>****On The Line**

* * *

><p><strong>Jason Vaz, 15<br>****District Seven**

"Just the two of us, then, I suppose."

Jason nodded. Viktoria had left the breakfast table already, probably eager to spend more time with the allies she had found. The allies she seemed to consider a better option than the two of them.

"Maybe it's better this way," Jason offered, though he couldn't say exactly why, aside from the fact that he was fairly certain he could trust Saoirse. He planned to keep an eye on her, too, of course, but, with only two of them, that was reasonable. Any more might have been difficult to manage.

And it wasn't as if anyone had offered. The pair of them had spent the first two days alternating between the survival stations and the weapons stations, trying to learn as much as they could. They simply hadn't had time to look for allies, as well, and no one had come forward looking for them.

They must not have impressed anyone.

Jason turned his attention back to his breakfast. It didn't matter whether or not they impressed the other tributes. There were thirty-six of them, after all. Maybe it was better for both him and Saoirse if they faded into the background for a while. It wouldn't get them sponsors right away, but it wouldn't make them targets, either.

And he wanted to avoid being a target for as long as possible.

"Sometimes one ally is enough," Hazel offered encouragingly. "I only had my district partner, and that was enough to get me through the Games."

Jason smiled a little. If nothing else, they seemed to have Hazel's support, and the help of their mentor could mean even more than allies.

But that could only get them so far. If the sponsors didn't notice them, there wasn't much Hazel could do about it.

Viktoria, on the other hand, could pool her own sponsors with those of the rest of her group, so even if Hazel chose to help the two of them, instead, there were still three other districts whose mentors she could count on for help. "Do you think we should…" he started before dismissing it as a bad idea.

"What?" Saoirse asked.

Jason sighed. "Do you think we should ask Viktoria if we can join her alliance?"

Saoirse cocked an eyebrow. "You _want_ to?"

An understandable reaction, given how he'd reacted to Viktoria on the train. But the truth was that their chances might be better with a larger alliance. "It might give us a better shot," he offered, trying to sound as indifferent as possible.

Hazel glanced up. "It's worth thinking about. Try training with them for a while. Get to know them a little better. Maybe it'll work; maybe it won't. It's not too late to keep your options open."

Jason nodded. The same advice she'd given before. But, sooner or later, it _would_ be too late. Sooner or later, they would have to decide.

He just hoped they made the right decision.

* * *

><p><strong>Cassandra Sake, 17<br>****District Six**

"So, the two of you, then?"

Cassandra looked up, surprised, as Luke sat down with them at the breakfast table. After ignoring them ever since the reaping, _now_ he wanted to talk? What was he playing at? Did he suspect that they were planning to kill him – or planning to have him killed? Was he trying to play nice so that they wouldn't?

"Yeah, the two of us," Cassandra nodded. They hadn't found any other allies. Not that they'd really been looking. Ryzer seemed delighted to have even one ally, and chances were that no one else would have taken either of them.

"Did you find any friends?" Ryzer asked. Cassandra barely noticed her sing-song voice anymore. Or her nasally, breathy tone. Or her eye patch. Or the fact that her hair nearly always hid about half her face.

It was amazing what someone could get used to without even trying.

Luke, on the other hand, was clearly uneasy around her. "Yeah, I've found some allies. One of the boys from Two, and the girl from Three."

Cassandra nodded. She'd seen them together. Why was Ryzer interested? Did she have some reason for wanting to find out more about his allies? Or was she simply curious?

Either way, it wouldn't hurt to play along. "The boy from Two – any training?"

Luke nodded. "Some. The girl, too, actually. And I've managed to convince them that I've trained a little, too."

Ryzer giggled. "_Once the Games begin to play, they will find out anyway._"

Luke cocked an eyebrow. "What?"

Cassandra smiled; his discomfort was almost amusing. "What she means is that once the Games start, it won't take them long to figure out that you're not actually trained."

Luke's face reddened. "Vernon's trained me a little."

Cassandra rolled her eyes. "Sure. To do what? Lift car parts? Start a fire in the workshop furnace?"

He took the bait. "Knives mostly, actually, but we also spar with the spare parts around the shop. Pipes and things – and the basics are the same regardless of what sort of weapon you're dealing with. I know my fair share."

"As much as them?"

"More than them, I'd bet," Luke scoffed. "I'd bet the boy hasn't actually had that much training. And the girl – well, she looks like a model, so she'll be great with the sponsors, but I haven't seen anything that could be considered weapons skills."

Cassandra nodded. "That's a pity. Sounds like they won't be much use once the Games start."

Ryzer giggled. "Poor Luke. Whatever will he do?"

Luke shrugged. "Well, if nothing else, I can always do what Vernon did."

Cassandra nodded. She'd only been five at the time, but she remembered from the replays. Vernon had joined up with the Careers, only to turn on his allies during the bloodbath. If Luke was planning to do the same…

Cassandra glanced at Ryzer once Luke left. She was giggling gleefully. Apparently, she had been thinking the same thing.

Luke was going to regret his big mouth.

* * *

><p><strong>Ryzer Hijore, 16<br>****District Six**

"Now, remember, let me do the talking."

Ryzer nodded agreeably. Cassandra could do the talking. She was content to watch. Watch as Luke's little alliance tore itself apart from the inside.

This was going to be so much fun.

They waited until the boy was alone. After maybe half an hour at the sword station, Luke and Natasha wandered off to try out some spears, leaving Dewan, the boy from Two, on his own. Cassandra and Ryzer waited until Luke was far enough away and not watching, then made their approach.

"Hello, Dewan," Cassandra said, smiling a little. "We need to talk."

Dewan glanced over at them, surprised. Then he made the connection. "District Six, right? Luke's district partners?"

Cassandra nodded. "That's right. And, actually, it's Luke that we wanted to talk to you about."

Dewan shrugged. "What about him?"

"You can't trust him."

"It's the Hunger Games," Dewan pointed out. "You can't trust anybody."

"Good point," Cassandra agreed. "But most of us aren't the killing sort until our lives are actually on the line. Some people, however, are actually plotting other people's deaths."

Ryzer couldn't hold in a giggle. The irony was too delicious. "_If in Vernon's steps he treads, Luke's allies will soon be dead._"

Dewan's face grew paler. Clearly, he knew what had happened during Vernon's Games. "I'm listening."

Cassandra leaned forward a little, her voice low. "We were talking this morning. He suspects that you're not as trained as you've tried to pretend."

"I _am _trained," Dewan insisted.

"Doesn't matter if we believe that," Cassandra shrugged. "What matters is that _he_ doesn't believe it – you or Natasha. He's planning to take you out, and hoping that will earn him a place in a _real _Career alliance."

Skepticism finally found its way onto Dewan's face. "Why would he tell you this?"

An excellent question, actually, now that she thought about it. Why _had_ Luke told them all this? Well, except the part about wanting a place in a real Career alliance – Cassandra had made that up. But Luke had been pretty frank about the rest. Why?

Cassandra shrugged. "Because he doesn't think we're a threat."

"And why should _I _trust you? Why would you tell me this? What do you gain from tipping me off?"

Cassandra smiled a little. "That's where we're on the same side – at least for a little while. If you strike first, it would benefit us both. You because you'd have the element of surprise – and he wouldn't be able to kill you first. Us because then Vernon will have to focus on us. And won't blame us for Luke's death."

"Sounds like you get a pretty good deal for doing practically nothing," Dewan pointed out.

Cassandra shrugged. "If you don't want to do anything about it, that's fine. It's your loss. Also your funeral, probably, if you let him go through with his plan. But that's not really our concern." She gestured to Ryzer. "Let's go. We've said what we wanted to say."

And they had. Maybe they hadn't convinced Dewan, but they had sown seeds of doubt. It was only a matter of time before they sprouted and grew.

Everything had been set in motion.

* * *

><p><strong>Natasha Kovaćić, 16<br>****District Three**

"Are you sure?"

Natasha eyed Dewan curiously. He shrugged. "No, I'm not sure. You can never really be sure of anything in the Games. And they've got every reason to want Luke dead … but that doesn't necessarily mean they're lying." He shook his head. "I just thought you should know."

"Or you're planning to do something about it, and you want my help," Natasha countered. The fact that he had told her meant that he suspected the girls were telling the truth. That he had his doubts about Luke. That he might be planning to strike first.

"How do you know I won't just tell Luke everything you told me?" Natasha asked. She had no particular loyalty to Luke, no reason to choose him over Dewan. But the reverse was also true. What did she owe Dewan? If she had to choose between warning Luke and siding with Dewan, what made him so sure she would choose him?

Dewan shook his head. "I don't. But I have to hope you have more sense than that. If you tell him, Luke will probably try to kill me, sure – whether he was planning to, anyway, or not – but then what? Which of us do you think would win that fight?"

Natasha thought for a moment. She wasn't sure about that one. Luke was older and stronger, but Dewan, she was convinced, had at least a little training. And, at the very least, he was thinking like a Career. If Luke had been as careless with revealing his plans as the girls had said, Dewan had the edge on intelligence.

Dewan leaned back against a pillar. "Okay, let me rephrase. What happens if I win? I know you tipped Luke off, and I come after you next. Believe what you will about Luke, but I don't believe for a second that you've got the training you say you do. You'd be my first target."

Natasha nodded. "And if Luke wins?"

"Then he's just rid himself of a valuable ally, and he's left with you. Then what? How long do you think he'll let you tag along with him, once the advantage of having a larger group is gone? And if they're right about him trying to earn a place in a better pack, he might kill you, anyway. Or make you his new group's first target."

Neither of those sounded like good options. "And if I don't warn him? If I help you, instead? If we…" She looked away. _If we turn on our ally? If we act on the word of a couple girls from District Six? If we kill him, before he can kill us?_

"Then we've proved to each other that we can be trusted – at least for a little while," Dewan offered. "It's not much, but it's better than waiting. Better than wondering every second whether he's going to turn on us."

Natasha hesitated. But part of her knew what she had to do. Part of her knew that she had to do _something_, that sitting back and waiting for her two allies to fight it out wasn't an option. She had to pick a side.

And why shouldn't she pick the side that wanted her?

* * *

><p><strong>Saoirse Terris, 16<br>****District Seven**

Jason's instincts had been right.

Saoirse shook her head as she and Jason walked away from Viktoria and her alliance. She had tried. Really, she had. But Viktoria and her allies – they weren't merely a team. They were an explosion waiting to happen. They were a time bomb.

And Saoirse didn't want to be anywhere near them when it exploded.

Not that there was any outright hostility in the group. Quite the contrary; they seemed to be getting along surprisingly well. But, beneath the surface, the tension was almost palpable. Fletcher, who seemed to be their leader, didn't seem to see it, but none of them actually wanted to work together. It was an alliance of convenience, and it wouldn't last.

But what alliance would, in the end?

Saoirse glanced over at Jason as they settled into a rhythm at the axe station. Their own alliance had come easily. There was a familiarity to it, a certainty, an odd trust that had already been formed. In fact, if she was being honest with herself, she felt protective of him already, as if one of her own brothers had, in fact, managed to volunteer and was with her now.

She tried to push the thought away. She couldn't afford to think of him as family. She couldn't afford to put him first – or even on equal footing with herself. She knew, somewhere in the back of her mind, that the boy beside her would have to die, if she was ever to go home to her _real _brothers.

But she didn't have to be the one to do it.

There were thirty-six of them, after all. Chances were, someone else would kill him before she had to. It was rare – although not unheard of – for the last two tributes standing to be from the same district. It had happened three times – once during the Ninth Games, again during the Eighteenth, and, most recently, during the Twenty-Third.

That seemed a bit many, now that she thought about it. But, then, math had never been her strongest subject. Maybe three out of twenty-four was just about right.

But it didn't seem like it.

Saoirse pushed the thought from her mind. If it came down to the two of them, she would deal with it then. Chances are, it wouldn't. And, as long as there was someone else to fight, the two of them could stand together.

Just like brother and sister.

* * *

><p><strong>Daedem Luthra, 18<br>****District One**

He didn't want to join any of them.

Daedem picked at his food, frustrated. He didn't want to be here. He wasn't interested in finding any allies. He'd already memorized as much useless information as he could about plants, animals, knots, fires, and some basic first aid. Ultimately, there was only so much room for all of it. What more was he really going to learn in the few hours he had left?

He wished they would just get on with it.

"You couldn't find anyone else, either?" asked a small voice.

Daedem looked up, surprised, as Elaine slid into the seat across from him. "Wasn't looking for anyone," he shrugged, quickly recovering. "I'll do better on my own."

"I won't," Elaine admitted dejectedly.

"What happened to the girl you were with the other day – District Ten?" Daedem asked.

Elaine looked up, shocked – maybe surprised that he had been paying attention to who she had been training with. "I … I think I blew it."

"How do you mean?"

"She said something … odd. And I … Well, I walked away."

Daedem shrugged. "So un-walk-away. There's still time."

Elaine shook her head. "She has other allies now."

"Sure. The pair from Twelve. They'll take you, too."

"How do you know?"

"Why wouldn't they? For all they know, you're a cold-blooded, stone-hearted killing machine."

"That sounds like an argument for _not_ wanting me as an ally."

Daedem chuckled. "I was kidding. No one's stupid enough to believe that. You tried to run away at the reaping, remember?"

Elaine glared. "Well, you were yelling, asking what you'd done to deserve this."

"Touché," Daedem agreed. "You're right; neither of us is Career material. Good thing they're not Careers. Just go ask them. What's the worst that could happen?"

"They could kill me," Elaine suggested morbidly.

"Not until the Games start," Daedem pointed out. "And without allies, you're as good as dead, anyway."

Elaine looked away, ashamed. Daedem shook his head. "I'm just kidding."

But was he? What chance did the little girl have, really, without someone to protect her? Part of him secretly hoped she would find someone.

Someone. But not him. He had to focus on himself. Focus on staying alive. He couldn't waste time worrying about what happened to some fourteen-year-old kid who would have to die, anyway, if he was going to make it home.

And yet here he was, giving her advice.

Probably best to get rid of her before she got the wrong idea. "Go on, then." He nodded towards the table where the girl from Ten and the pair from Twelve were eating. "Go ask them."

And she did.

* * *

><p><strong>Lynher Palmieri, 16<br>****District Eleven**

He didn't want to be the bad guy.

Lynher glanced over at Francis, who was watching his own district partners with something that was almost regret. "It's not too late to change our minds, you know," he offered. "We can still ask if they want to be allies. They'd probably say yes."

Francis shook his head. "That's the problem. It's 'they' now. Four of them, from the looks of it." He nodded towards the group, which now included not only his district partners and the girl from Ten, but the younger girl from One, as well. "It was one thing when it was just Brennan asking to join us, but all four of them…"

Lynher nodded. Francis was right – technically. But it still didn't feel right, just the two of them. He was used to having more people around. He was used to being … well, maybe not the center of attention, but certainly a part of the attention. A part of the focus. Here, he was just one more tribute. Just one more teenager who could be dead very, very soon.

He didn't want to be that.

"What about someone else, then?" he asked. Maybe if he suggested someone older, stronger, then Francis might agree.

Francis cocked an eyebrow. "Who did you have in mind?"

He hadn't had _anyone _in mind. He had just thought that, out of thirty-six tributes, there must be _someone _else who would want to ally with them. "How about District One?" he asked without really thinking. "The boy, I mean. He doesn't seem like a Career, but he's pretty strong, and it doesn't seem like he has any allies yet, and—"

"I get the picture," Francis nodded. He thought for a moment. "All right. Let's ask. What's the worst that could happen?"

"He could kill us?" Lynher offered with a small chuckle. Francis' expression turned grave, and Lynher knew it had been the wrong thin to say. "Probably not, though," he pointed out, trying to backtrack. "Against the rules and all – at least before the Games. And once we're in the arena – well, that's what everyone's trying to do, isn't it? Kill us, before we kill them. So it'd probably be better to have him on our side."

Francis nodded wearily. "Let's just … give it a try."

The pair headed over to where the boy from One was sitting. "Must be the place to come for lunch today," the boy mumbled.

"Pardon?" Lynher asked.

The boy shrugged. "My district partner was just here looking for advice about allies."

"I see you sent her to _my _district partners," Francis observed.

"District Twelve, then?" the boy asked.

Francis nodded. "Francis. And this is Lynher."

"Daedem."

"Since we're talking about allies," Lynher butted in. "We were wondering if you'd like to join us."

Daedem's expression went blank. Then, to Lynher's surprise, his mouth widened into a grin, and he nearly burst out laughing. "What's so funny?" Lynher asked, confused.

Daedem chuckled a little. "It's not you. It's just my mentor – well, one of my allies' mentors, technically – implied that the only way District Twelve would be useful was if the arena happened to be a coal mine." He shook his head, laughing wryly. "Well, maybe it'll be a coal mine this year." He finally stopped laughing long enough to say, "What the hell. I'll be your ally." He chuckled a little more.

"What have I got to lose?"

* * *

><p><strong>Eigen Vallant, 14<br>****District Three**

He hadn't realized how much he would miss having someone around.

Eigen stared out at the tables. Alasdair was happily chatting with his allies. Eigen had been perfectly fine with him leaving, of course. Who needed a shy little twelve-year-old as an ally? But the more time passed, the more he realized that, even if he didn't want Alasdair, he did want _someone_.

But who?

Almost everyone seemed to have found allies already. There were some larger groups, some smaller, and a few pairs, but he seemed to be the last one alone.

He didn't want to be alone.

"What do you want?"

Eigen whirled around. The voice belonged to one of the older boys, who was standing directly behind him. "What?" Eigen asked, puzzled.

"Exactly," the boy smiled. "What do you want?"

Eigen turned back to his lunch. He didn't have the patience right now to deal with lunatics.

"What do you want?"

What _did_ he want? He wanted an ally, but why? So that he could have someone to rely on? So that he could have someone to order around? So that he would have to worry about them stabbing him in the back?

Maybe it was better not to have any, anyway.

"What do you want?"

Eigen clenched his fists, determined not to give the boy the satisfaction of an answer. He tried to focus on his food, but the boy simply stood behind him, repeating the question every so often: "What do you want?"

Finally, he'd had enough. Eigen stood up as calmly as he could and turned to face the boy. "You really want to know what I want?" he asked, his voice dripping with fake politeness.

The other boy nodded solemnly. "I really want to know."

Eigen swung, his fist striking the older boy squarely in the jaw. Then he swung again. And again. But the boy didn't back off. He struck back, landing a punch on Eigen's cheek, another in his stomach.

By the time the guards came to separate them, Eigen's nose was bleeding, as was the other boy's cheek. Eigen flailed for a while before finally calming down enough to storm over to the spear station to take his anger out on a dummy, instead.

Only after a few minutes did he realize that he had been followed. The girl from Eight and one of the girls from Five were standing nearby, just waiting. Finally, the girl from Eight stepped forward.

"We'd like to talk to you."

* * *

><p><strong>Shilo Chanteau, 15<br>****District Eight**

"Are you sure?" Eigen asked.

Shilo nodded. "That's what he said. The Robber Prince. Probably thought no one else was listening." A small part of her felt bad for spilling Fletcher's secret, but if he didn't want people to know, he really shouldn't have said it in the middle of the training area where anyone who was listening could hear him.

And she had been listening.

"And you believe him?" Eigen asked skeptically.

Shilo shrugged. "Doesn't matter whether I do or not. Point is, the Capitol will be targeting him as soon as they find out – if they haven't already."

"If they're not targeting his alliance already because of _my _district partner," Mirami added.

Eigen chuckled a little. "I suppose that's why I didn't get in trouble for attacking him. I was a little disappointed, actually – wanted to see what they'd do."

"There's not much they _could_ do," Mirami pointed out. "We're already in a fight to the death. What more are they going to do to us?"

Of course, there was plenty the Capitol _could _do. They could make sure that their deaths were slow and painful. They could kill their families, their friends, their entire district. But no one said it. Mirami probably wasn't even thinking it. She was loving this entire thing, and, for that, Shilo envied her a little.

But only a little. Once the Games began, her Capitol-loving attitude wouldn't save Mirami forever. But, for now, it was useful. Shilo glanced at Mirami, who nodded encouragingly. _Go on. Ask him._

"We were wondering if you'd like to join us," Shilo offered.

Eigen raised an eyebrow. "Join _you_? Why?"

"Why not?" Mirami asked cheerily.

"Why _not_? Maybe because I've got enough to worry about without having to protect two little girls," Eigen shot back.

Shilo laughed.

Eigen's shocked expression told her that wasn't what he'd been expecting. He'd been hoping to get a rise out of her, hoping to provoke her into saying or doing something stupid. Instead, she laughed it off and turned to Mirami. "Well, I guess we should go, then." The pair started to leave. "Not much else to do here if—"

"Wait!" Eigen called.

Shilo turned to face him again, smiling sweetly. "Yes?"

"I guess … I guess I'll let you join me."

Not quite what they had asked. But whether he joined them or they joined him, the result was the same. And maybe it was better, for now, to let him think that he was in charge. To let him believe they would follow him. "We'd love to," Shilo grinned.

She just hoped she hadn't made a huge mistake.

* * *

><p><strong>Bakaari Reeves, 17<br>****District Eleven**

"Just the two of us, then?"

Bakaari glanced over at Jazz as the two of them headed back to the hand-to-hand combat station after lunch. She was right; it was still just the two of them. He hadn't even really thought about trying to find anyone else. He'd been too focused on learning as much as he could.

And both of them _had_ learned a lot. Not that he felt ready to take on a Career single-handed or anything, but he had a good feel for a few of the weapons. A dagger. A mace. A club. Maybe he didn't know many of the finer points, but they felt good in his hands.

But he still couldn't imagine using them on a person.

"I guess so," he agreed. "Is that all right with you?"

Jazz nodded. "Probably better that way – not really getting to know anyone else."

She was probably right. A lot of the other tributes had been mingling, getting to know more and more people – even people who weren't their allies. Why? Wouldn't that just make it harder when they had to start killing each other? Wouldn't it be easier if the others were complete strangers?

Not that it would ever be _easy_, but he had a harder time picturing himself killing someone he knew. Jazz, or even Lynher. Maybe he could, if it came down to just them. But before then … he just couldn't imagine it.

Then again, he had a hard time imagining himself killing _anyone._

But he would have to, in order to make it home. In order to make it back to his sisters. In twenty-four years, only one tribute had made it out of the Games without killing, and the Gamemakers weren't likely to allow that to happen again. Not any time soon, at least, and certainly not during a Quarter Quell. Victors had to kill. That was simply the way it was.

So he tried to imagine it. The next time he swung his mace at the dummy, he tried to imagine that it was real. Tried to imagine he was actually swinging to kill. Breaking bones, ripping flesh.

The thought made him sick.

Jazz must have noticed. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," Bakaari lied. "Just a bit sick of all this, I guess."

Jazz nodded. "Me, too. I wish we were just in the arena already so we could get it over with."

Bakaari had to fight to keep from cringing. That was the last thing he wanted. As bad as waiting for the inevitable was, he knew that the Games themselves would be worse. He was in no hurry for the fighting to start.

He wasn't ready.

* * *

><p><strong>Jazz Farnahm, 17<br>****District Eleven**

She was ready.

Jazz took another swing at the dummy. Maybe not completely ready, but as ready as she was ever going to be. What difference were a few more hours of training really going to make? At some point, they might as well get on with it.

Get it over with.

Bakaari didn't seem so eager. Not that she was terribly surprised by that. He was enjoying the luxury of the Capitol. The food, the clothes, the beds, the warm water, the clean rooms. And even she had to admit, it was a nice change. But, in the end, the luxuries were simply distractions from the reality that they would be killing each other soon.

And she didn't need any more distractions.

Bakaari himself was enough of a distraction. A distraction from focusing on her own life. But he was a necessary one; she definitely didn't want to face the Games on her own. Not yet, at least.

Not yet.

But, eventually, she would have to. Everyone knew that any sort of alliance in the Games could only be temporary. And she knew, somewhere in the back of her mind, that Bakaari would never be the one to break it off. He would never be the one to end the alliance.

So she would have to.

But not yet. She still had a while before she would have to think about that. Get through training. Get through the bloodbath. Get through the first few days of the Games. Then she could think about what to do about her ally.

Assuming they weren't dead already.

It was odd, now that she thought about it – how that hadn't even occurred to her. She had been assuming that she and Bakaari would survive. That, working together, they could make it through the first couple of days. But was that even true?

No. No, she couldn't afford to start thinking like this now. Couldn't afford to start second-guessing herself. They would survive. They had to. And that's all there was to it. Anything else was just a waste of time. No sense worrying about something that she had no control over. Not now.

Better to focus on something she _could _control.

But what? Now that she thought about it, so few things _were_ left in her control. Frustrated, she took another swing at the dummy. She wasn't used to feeling so helpless. So cornered. No matter what she did, it wouldn't really matter. So much depended on her ally, on the other tributes, on the audience, on the Gamemakers.

And none of them gave a damn about what happened to her.

* * *

><p><strong>Francis Cooper, 17<br>****District Twelve**

"Did I make the right choice?"

Francis studied Silas' expression, not quite sure what he was hoping for. Perhaps some hint of approval. Some sign that he had made the right decision to abandon Brennan and Blythe in favor of his two older, stronger allies.

He knew it shouldn't be bothering him. It wasn't as if he owed the two younger tributes anything. Wasn't as if he had promised to be their ally and then taken it back. He'd promised nothing. Hinted at nothing. He had no reason to feel bad about his decision.

And yet he did.

But maybe that was the very reason he had to stand by his choice. If he felt this bad about turning down his district partners as allies, how much worse would it have been to have them as allies, only to watch them die? Maybe it was better to sever ties now, so that when their faces appeared in the sky, the wounds wouldn't be as fresh.

That was, of course, assuming that it would be their faces, not his, that appeared in the sky.

"There's no such thing," Silas said at last, with a solemnity that Francis had never heard in his mentor's usually cheerful voice before.

"Pardon?" Francis asked.

Silas shrugged. "There's no such thing as 'the right choice' in the Games. Chances are, you did the necessary thing. But that's not always the same as the right thing. You're a tribute now, Francis; you don't have the luxury of doing the right thing."

Francis nodded. Silas was right, of course. The only way he was going to make it out of the arena alive was if he stopped worrying about doing the right thing and focused on doing whatever would keep him alive. And if that meant choosing his allies based on utility rather than sympathy, then so be it.

"What would you do?" Francis asked. A silly question, perhaps, since Silas had never been in this sort of situation. Unlike the other mentors, Silas wasn't a victor. He had never been in the arena. That put him – and his tributes – at a disadvantage. But, still, Francis was curious about what his mentor would have done in his place.

Silas thought for a moment, leaning back in his chair. "After the war, one of my first cases involved a couple from District Nine. They had two young children – a two-year-old girl who had been crippled in a raid and a seven-year-old boy. They'd all been arrested, but, in return for the parents' cooperation – pleading guilty, naming a few of their associates, that sort of thing – the Capitol was prepared to offer one pardon."

"Only one?" Francis asked.

Silas nodded. "One. That was the deal. I had to choose, Francis – had to choose who to save. The parents were adamant, of course, that I choose one of the children. For days, the little boy asked me – begged me – to choose the girl, instead. To let him die, if it would save his sister's life. But what sort of a life would she have had? How long would she have lived? Who would have taken her in? Would she have survived a week, a month?" He shook his head.

"You chose the boy, didn't you."

Silas nodded. "I did. And somewhere in District Nine is a man who will never stop hating me for what I did. But he's alive, Francis, because I made a choice. Was it the right choice? No. There is no right choice in a situation like that – or this. I did what I thought was best at the time, and now I have to live with it." He shook his head. "Does that answer your question?"

It did.

* * *

><p>"<em>Sure is for people with nothing on the line. You and me? We just get on with it."<em>


	22. Private Sessions: Over the Edge

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **Those with a fondness for small, fuzzy animals may wish to skip this chapter.

On a different note, there's a new poll up on my profile, this time asking which tributes you think will make the final eight. Naturally, please vote for eight. This one will be up until the interviews _begin_, so if you want to wait until after next chapter to find out the tributes' scores, that's perfectly fine.

As with the bloodbath poll, this poll is not likely to have an effect on who will actually be _in_ the final eight. I use this mostly as a guideline to make sure the choices I've made are somewhere between believable and unpredictable.

* * *

><p><strong>Gamemaker Sessions<br>****Over the Edge**

* * *

><p><strong>Helius Florum<br>****Head Gamemaker**

Dummies weren't good enough.

Helius took one last look around the room. That was the problem with training with dummies. They didn't think. They didn't react. They didn't fight back.

They didn't kill.

This year's room held no dummies. Helius giggled as he put up one final touch: a sign that read simply, "Kill the bunny!" Then he released the first one from its cage. Immediately, the furry little creature scampered over to the edible plants station, where it hid behind a pile of berries and started munching away.

But hiding wouldn't save it forever.

* * *

><p>Daedem came in, took one look at the sign, and started laughing. After a moment, however, he realized that it wasn't a joke. He shrugged, looked around for the rabbit, and quickly found its hiding place.<p>

Catching it proved to be more of a challenge. It was a good five minutes before Daedem finally cornered the rabbit, spear in hand. He struck quickly, but it was only a glancing blow, wounding the creature in the leg. It took a second blow to finish it off. "Bastard," Daedem muttered as he left, although it was unclear whether he was referring to the rabbit or to the Head Gamemaker.

Helius shrugged and released another rabbit.

* * *

><p>Elaine couldn't hide the look of horror on her face as she read the sign, but she quickly recovered. Fists tightly clenched, she headed for the weapons area and chose a small knife, then set out to find the rabbit.<p>

She was quicker than her district partner, and soon caught the little creature, but, in doing so, dropped the knife. As she reached for the knife with one hand, the rabbit squirmed out of the other, and the chase began again. The second time, Elaine was more careful. She grabbed the rabbit with her left hand, and, after only a moment's hesitation, stabbed it with the knife.

The blow didn't kill it, however, and Elaine backed away, tears in her eyes, as the rabbit began squealing. After a moment, she mustered the courage to step forward again and finish the kill, but then ran out of the door, still crying.

* * *

><p>Henri didn't even look for the rabbit. She simply headed for the edible plants station and began sorting. When she'd finished that, she sorted some insects, tied a few knots, and started a decent fire.<p>

While she sat there, nursing the flame, Helius crept up behind her with the rabbit in his arms and promptly dropped it in her lap. Henri squealed in surprise, dropping the bunny, which quickly hopped away. "What did you do that for?" she demanded.

Helius shrugged. "I wanted to see what you'd do if a killer bunny attacked you during the Games," he offered. "I guess I've got my answer."

After Henri had left, Helius took the bunny and placed it in a box on the Gamemakers' table.

* * *

><p>Dewan read the sign, gathered a handful of throwing knives, and chose a position a good ten paces away from the rabbit. After only a moment's hesitation, he threw the knife. He missed by a few inches, and the rabbit scampered off. Undeterred, Dewan threw again. And again.<p>

Once he'd used all his knives, he patiently gathered them all up again and started over. This time, he hit the rabbit with the second knife, wounding it in the thigh. With the rabbit injured, Dewan easily closed in and finished the job, then quickly turned and left the room.

* * *

><p>Adrian shot Helius a look that clearly read, "You've got to be kidding." But, when Helius simply smiled back, Adrian rolled his eyes and began searching for the bunny.<p>

He found it quickly, cornered it, and, gripping one of its legs in his hand, headed for the weapons station. There, he chose a club, held the rabbit in place on the floor, and quickly bashed its head in. "Happy now?" he asked Helius sarcastically.

And he was.

* * *

><p>Simone frowned when she saw the sign. "I'd planned on demonstrating survival skills," she admitted.<p>

Helius shrugged. "So pretend you have to kill the bunny in order to survive."

Simone said nothing, but chose a knife and went after the rabbit, zig-zagging back and forth until she finally caught it in one hand and drove the knife into its heart with the other. Slowly, she stood up, still shaking, and headed for the door. "I guess you get to live today," Helius giggled.

* * *

><p>Alasdair read the sign and quickly headed for the knot-tying station to gather some rope. Within minutes, he'd made a simple snare. Then he placed some berries nearby and headed to the other side of the room to watch.<p>

Within minutes, the rabbit hopped over, sniffed at the berries, and tripped the snare, which caught it by the leg. Alasdair quickly chose a knife and headed back to his snare. The rabbit was wriggling madly, trying to break free. Alasdair knelt down, took a deep breath, closed his eyes, then opened them again.

Then he cut the rope.

* * *

><p>Eigen barely glanced at the sign before heading over to catch the bunny, completely unfazed. After chasing it around for a while, he finally managed to corner it near the sword station. He lunged forward and quickly caught the bunny, wrapping his hands around its neck.<p>

Helius assumed the boy would go for a weapon, but, instead, Eigen simply squeezed. Harder and harder. The bunny struggled for a moment, but, soon, it went limp. Eigen dumped the body on the floor and stormed out the door.

* * *

><p>Natasha ignored the sign. And the weapons. And the survival stations. She simply took a seat, cross-legged, on the floor in the middle of the room. Then she looked up at Helius, staring. Unmoving.<p>

Helius stared right back.

She didn't move. Not even when he came over and dumped the bunny in her lap. Her eyes never left him. Finally, he shrugged and told her that her time was up. Without a word, she got up and left the room.

Helius dumped another bunny into the box on his table.

* * *

><p>Barclay pretended not to see the sign and headed straight for the weapons. He swung a sword around, threw a few spears at the wall, then, finally, started throwing knives – away from the rabbit.<p>

Helius hopped down from his chair, quickly caught the rabbit, and placed it in front of Barclay. Barclay hesitated a moment, but then headed for the plants station, gathered some berries, and started throwing those at the rabbit, instead. After a few minutes of this, the rabbit was covered in berry juice, but still very much alive.

After Barclay had left, Helius deposited the berry-stained bunny into the box with the others.

* * *

><p>Kinley took her time reading the sign, but finally decided she couldn't stall any more. She took off after the bunny, which quickly sprinted away. For a while, she simply chased it, staying a fair distance away. Helius cocked an eyebrow. Was she trying to impress him with her endurance and patience, or just hoping to prolong the inevitable?<p>

Finally, she caught the rabbit – then let it go and started the chase over again. After about fifteen minutes of catching and releasing the rabbit, she finally caught it again. The rabbit, exhausted, barely struggled as she reached for a knife and quickly slit its throat.

* * *

><p>Calissa raised an eyebrow when she saw the sign, but quickly headed for the knot-tying station, where she fashioned several ropes into a decent net. Soon, she had caught the bunny, then tied a noose around its neck and strung it from the ceiling.<p>

Then she reached for some throwing knives. Soon, the pincushioned rabbit dangled limply from the rope, blood dripping onto the floor. Calissa finished by severing the rope with one of her knives, letting the blood-soaked rabbit crumple in a heap. Then she turned to Helius, forced a smile, and waited for him to dismiss her.

* * *

><p>Niles was glaring as he entered, and his frown only hardened when he saw the sign. "No way in hell," he muttered before simply walking out.<p>

* * *

><p>Mirami read the sign, nodded crisply, and gathered an assortment of small weapons: knives, boomerangs, a blowgun, and a slingshot. Quickly, she clambered up to the top of the ropes course and began throwing. At first, none of her shots came anywhere near the bunny, but, finally, she grazed it with one of the darts from her blowgun.<p>

That slowed the bunny down, and, soon, she was hitting her target. Finally, a knife stuck in its neck, dropping it, and Mirami clambered down to finish the job. Then she turned to Helius, gave a little curtsy, and left.

* * *

><p>Mercury looked as if she might burst into tears when she saw the sign, but, after a moment, she collected herself and put on a smile. "All right, then," she muttered. "Bunny, bunny, who's got the bunny." She made a show of looking around for the rabbit before finally going after it.<p>

Despite this, she caught it rather quickly, holding it close to her chest until it stopped squirming. At last, she chose a knife, and, doing her best not to look, drove it into the rabbit's fur. It let out a squeak, and she nearly dropped it, but, instead, she stabbed it again, harder this time, and the rabbit finally went limp.

There were tears in her eyes as she left, but the deed was done.

* * *

><p>Luke quickly chose a sword and went after the rabbit. After chasing it around for a while, he cornered it and began slashing. His first stroke missed, but the second tore into the rabbit's side, and the third lopped off its head.<p>

Luke glanced around, clearly not in a hurry to be finished. But there weren't any more rabbits, so he simply swung the sword around for a while, then chose an axe and started swinging with that until Helius told him he could leave. Helius smiled a little. He liked an overachiever.

* * *

><p>Ryzer nearly squealed with delight when she saw the sign. She quickly found the rabbit, caught it, and slammed its head against the floor, killing it. Helius cocked an eyebrow. She'd had practice. Real practice. This wasn't the first time she'd killed an animal.<p>

But she didn't stop there. She scurried over to the fire station and quickly built a small fire, then roasted the rabbit and sat down to eat. When she'd eaten most of the rabbit, she made her way over to the Gamemakers' table and offered Helius the remaining leg.

He was still munching on it as she left.

* * *

><p>Cassandra smiled a little when she saw Helius chewing on what remained of the rabbit and realized what her district partner had done. Not about to be shown up, Cassandra quickly caught the rabbit, grabbed the bucket of water that Helius kept by the fire station in case of emergencies, and plunged the rabbit into the water.<p>

For a moment, it squirmed and thrashed, trying to free itself. But, finally, the drenched little body went limp. Cassandra pulled the rabbit from the bucket, chopped it into little pieces, and dumped the diced rabbit back in the bucket along with some berries and herbs.

Helius didn't eat any this time. He had standards about how well his meat should be cooked.

* * *

><p>Jason raised an eyebrow when he saw the sign. "Really?"<p>

"Really," Helius nodded.

Jason shrugged. "Okay." Knife in hand, he took off after the rabbit. He quickly caught it, but apparently decided that was too easy. He let it go again, gave it a head start, and resumed the chase. After doing this several times, he grabbed the rabbit in one hand and his knife in the other, and quickly finished the creature off.

Then he turned back to Helius, smiling a little. "Got any more?"

* * *

><p>Saoirse chased the rabbit for a full fifteen minutes. "Time's up!" Helius called with a shrug.<p>

"No, please, give me a little more time. I can do this!" Saoirse insisted. Helius nodded, and she kept chasing. It took her almost five more minutes, but she finally caught the rabbit, and, not wanting to waste any more time, quickly slit its throat.

"Thank you," she managed to say, still out of breath, but a smile of satisfaction creeping over her face. "Told you I could do it."

Indeed, she had.

* * *

><p>Viktoria cringed when she saw the sign, but quickly chose a few smaller throwing knives and headed over to where the rabbit was hiding. Her first throw missed, as did the second. The third grazed the rabbit's tail as it scurried off, but, for the fourth, she anticipated better, and struck the bunny in the side with the blunt end of the axe.<p>

For a moment, the rabbit was too dazed to run away, and Viktoria used that to her advantage, hurrying over and slicing off its head in one stroke. Then she stepped back, staring, her expression a mixture of disgust and relief that it was over.

But the real test was far from over.

* * *

><p>Enzo grew pale as he read the sign, but he quickly headed for the edible plants station and chose some berries. Then he sat down and tossed a berry towards where the rabbit was hiding. After a moment, it came out, sniffed the berry, and took a nibble. Enzo tossed another – a little closer. The rabbit inched closer. Soon, the creature was right in front of him.<p>

Enzo clenched his jaw, bracing himself to grab the rabbit. He took a deep breath. Then another. Then shook his head, got up, and left the room.

Helius hurried over and injected the rabbit with an antidote for the poisonous berries Enzo had been feeding it. Then he dumped it in the box with the others.

* * *

><p>Fletcher walked in, read the sign, and burst out laughing. Without a moment's hesitation, he headed for where the rabbit was hiding and quickly cornered it. Then he picked it up, tucked it under his arm, and headed for the door.<p>

For a moment, Helius thought he was simply going to walk out with it, but, instead, Fletcher set the rabbit down and shooed it out the door. "Have fun catching that," he remarked with a grin, took a deep bow, and followed the rabbit.

Helius giggled for a moment before turning to one of the other Gamemakers. "Well," he said with a shrug. "Go and get it."

After about twenty minutes, the rabbit was sitting in his box on the table.

* * *

><p>Shilo had clearly grown impatient while the Gamemakers rushed about trying to find the missing bunny, but she put on a smile as she entered. The smile faded, however, when she read the sign. She quickly masked her surprise, however, and headed for the knives.<p>

The first one missed the rabbit. So did the second and the third. Frustrated, Shilo chased the rabbit around the room, finally cornering it. Then, at point-blank range, she finally managed to hit it with one of her knives, wounding it but still not managing to kill until she finished the job with another one.

When she turned back to Helius, however, her smile was back. "Just remember – it's not the time that it takes to finish the job that matters. It's the result."

She had a point.

* * *

><p>Dennar stood perfectly still for a moment, clenching and unclenching his fists. Perhaps giving himself a silent pep talk. Then, silently, he tucked a small knife in his belt and headed after the rabbit.<p>

It didn't take him long to catch it, but, for a while, he simply sat there, cradling it in his arms, deciding. Stroking its fur. At last, he reached for the knife. Looking into the rabbit's eyes one more time, he whispered, "Goodbye."

Then he slit its throat.

* * *

><p>Asteria studied the sign for a moment as if completely confused. At last, she chose a knife, headed over to the fire-starting station, and began whittling a piece of wood. By the time her fifteen minutes were almost over, she had whittled a passable rabbit.<p>

Grinning, she showed it to Helius, then took the knife and sawed through the wooden figure's neck.

Once she was gone, Helius burst out laughing. "Points for originality," he giggled, then placed the lucky bunny in the box with the others.

* * *

><p>Radiance closed her eyes for a moment. Then she opened them and read the sign again. A disappointed look crossed her face; perhaps she had been hoping it would have disappeared. But it hadn't, so she quickly chose a knife and took off after the rabbit.<p>

It didn't take her too long to catch it, but it was squirming so much that it took her three tries to finish it off. The third time, she closed her eyes, stabbing as hard as she could. The rabbit twitched for a moment, then went completely still.

Only then did she open her eyes.

* * *

><p>Corvo hesitated for a moment, considering. Debating. At last, however, he chose a knife and went after the rabbit. He caught it quickly, then drew the knife swiftly across its throat, killing it instantly.<p>

Then he simply turned and left. No show. No fuss. Helius smiled and called after him. "Thank you for not wasting my time!"

* * *

><p>Hogan took his time cornering the rabbit, circling it again and again, almost taunting it. Finally, he reached out and grabbed it, then held it for a while. After a moment, Helius realized he was feeling its pulse. Searching for arteries. He probably knew where they were on a human, but a rabbit was unfamiliar.<p>

Undeterred, Hogan reached for a knife, and carefully made three small cuts. Then he released the rabbit, which took off immediately, leaving a trail of blood. Within minutes, the little creature had bled out, leaving Hogan with a satisfied smile and Helius with a rather messy floor.

* * *

><p>Grace read the sign, blinked, and then read it again. After a moment, she took a deep breath, clenched her fists, and chose a small dagger. Then she headed for the edible plants, chose a few berries, and held them out in her hand.<p>

For a minute, she sat there. Then five. Then ten. Finally, the rabbit came out of hiding, its nose twitching. Grace let the bunny eat a few of the berries. Then, choosing her target with care, she drove the dagger into the rabbit's heart, killing it instantly. "I'm sorry," she whispered, tears in her eyes.

Helius shrugged as she left. She could be as sorry as she wanted, as long as she got the job done.

* * *

><p>Lynher studied the sign for a moment. "You're kidding, right?"<p>

Helius shook his head. "Perfectly serious."

"You want me to kill a rabbit."

"Pretend it's another tribute, if it helps," Helius shrugged.

Lynher seemed to grasp the irony. He picked a knife, chased the bunny for a few minutes before catching it, and slit its throat quickly before he had a chance to second-guess himself. Then he tossed the knife aside and left without looking back.

* * *

><p>Bakaari hesitated for a moment, but then grabbed a scythe and went after the rabbit. At first, the bunny was too quick for him, dodging every swing. But, after a while, it began to tire, and, soon, it was too exhausted to keep up the pace.<p>

But Bakaari hadn't tired. He swung again, this time slicing deep into the rabbit's flesh. A second swing took off the creature's head, and a third sliced its body in two. Only then did Bakaari seem to realize what he had just done, and stared for a moment before hurrying out the door.

* * *

><p>Jazz clenched her fists when she saw the sign, but quickly spotted the rabbit at the fire-starting station and went after it. It was gone before she could catch it, however, and she spent the next five minutes chasing it around the room, growing steadily more frustrated.<p>

When she finally cornered it, she didn't hesitate. She lunged, grabbed the little creature, and, with one good twist, snapped its neck. Then she tossed the dead rabbit down at her feet and turned to leave.

* * *

><p>Brennan stared at the sign, bewildered. "Is this what you do every year?" Clearly, he was imagining piles and piles of dead bunnies buried behind the training center.<p>

Helius shook his head, still puzzled by the fact that dead bunnies would disturb people more than dead humans. "Nope, this is a first. What do you think?"

Clearly, he thought it was terrible. But he didn't say so. Instead, he grabbed a knife, chased the rabbit for a while, and finally caught it. Gritting his teeth, he looked away and stabbed the bunny through the chest. At last, he stood up.

"I think it's good practice," he admitted in a shaky voice.

* * *

><p>Francis looked like he might say something. Like he <em>wanted<em> to say something. Perhaps how childish this whole thing was, how silly it was to ask him to go after something so completely defenseless as a rabbit in an attempt to demonstrate how he would kill something that fought back.

Apparently, though, he thought better of it. He chose a knife and quickly caught the rabbit. He hesitated a moment before finishing it off, but finally stabbed it through the heart with the blade. Then he stood up, tossed the rabbit aside, and left without a word.

* * *

><p>Blythe swallowed hard when she saw the sign, but slowly approached the rabbit. It sprinted away, but she soon had it cornered. In one quick move, she scooped it up in her arms, only to realize she didn't have a weapon.<p>

She held the rabbit tightly as she headed over to grab a knife. But, once she had, she hesitated. Waited. Studied her prey. Then she closed her eyes, a few tears escaping. "I can't," she whispered. "I can't."

Helius nodded and added the last rabbit to the box.

* * *

><p><strong>President Richmond Hyde<strong>

He had never seen such confusing numbers.

Hyde studied the page again, thinking perhaps he had misread. How had the boy from Four scored so low? How had the tributes from Six scored so high? "Care to explain this, Helius?" he asked.

Helius shrugged and gestured to a box full of rabbits. "I was tempted to just give everyone who spared their rabbit a zero and everyone who killed it a ten, but, in the end, I felt I should add a little variety."

Hyde cocked an eyebrow and glanced inside the box. "How many…?"

"Nine," Helius answered. "A rather fitting number, perhaps. Three times three. Three spared in weakness, three in compassion, and three in defiance."

"Defiance," Hyde repeated. Not a word he liked to hear. "The three on my list?"

"Two of them."

"And my third?"

Helius shook his head. "Turns out your third's a killer. Of course, if I really wanted to find out who would kill when their life was on the line, I would have picked something a bit deadlier than a rabbit. But we couldn't exactly risk a tribute dying before the Games begin." He shrugged. "This was enough to give me an idea, though."

"An idea of who will die quickly?"

Helius smiled a little. "An idea of who will break."

* * *

><p>"<em>You never know what you're gonna find when you look over the edge of what's known and into what's not."<em>


	23. Training Scores: Consequences

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **As one reviewer noted, no real bunnies were harmed in the writing of the previous chapter. Please do not send PETA after me. (Or Peeta, for that matter.)

Just a friendly reminder to vote in the "final eight" poll on my profile if you haven't already. A new poll will be up along with the next chapter.

Since people keep asking (and one was a guest reviewer, so I couldn't exactly reply), there will be four more chapters (_not_ including this one) before the Games. That's three chapters of interviews and one night-before-the-Games chapter. So we're close. Very close.

* * *

><p><strong>Training Scores<br>****Consequences**

* * *

><p><strong>Cornelius Juniper<br>****Hunger Games Host**

Every year, there were a few surprises.

Cornelius glanced once over the list of names and numbers. Every so often over the past twenty-one years, he had considered asking Helius exactly what the tributes did during their private sessions. But, in the end, he knew, it didn't really matter. The numbers didn't really matter. Once the tributes were in the arena, all that mattered was what they did in there. The past would be gone, the slate wiped clean, ready for a fresh start.

But, for now, the slate needed a few numbers. He flashed a smile at his daughter as the numbers counted down in front of him. _Three. Two. One._

"Hello, and welcome back to the Twenty-Fifth Annual Hunger Games! Tonight, we have some very important information, straight from the Gamemakers themselves. Each of the tributes has been evaluated and scored based on their performances today for the Gamemakers, and, finally, they get to see the fruits of their effort! So, without further ado, let's begin with District One!"

* * *

><p><strong>Scarlet LaFleur<br>****District One Mentor**

_Daedem Luthra, with a score of eight._

_Elaine Willis, with a score of five._

_Molly Saunders, with a score of one._

Scarlet clapped Daedem on the back. "Not bad! That's only one less than my score."

Daedem shrugged. "Don't get excited. Normal year, regular Careers, I'd barely scrape out a six. But _someone _has to score high, and there aren't very many legitimate Careers this year."

He was right, of course. The scores were adjusted. They had to be; the audience wanted to see _some_ high scores, even if the tributes earning them couldn't live up to the same standard as regular Careers.

Elaine seemed content with her score, which wasn't bad for a fourteen-year-old, after all. Henri shrugged as if she'd been expecting hers. Jade sighed.

"At least it wasn't a zero."

* * *

><p><strong>Vester Pierce<br>****District Two Mentor**

_Dewan Rutledge, with a score of eight._

_Adrian Mors, with a score of nine._

_Simone Lorance, with a score of six._

Vester tried to offer Simone an encouraging smile. "Hey, a six isn't bad. Talitha, that's what you got, wasn't it?"

Talitha nodded. "It was."

"But you weren't trying to convince your allies to let you stay in a Career pack," Simone pointed out. "I probably got the lowest out of the four of us."

Vester nodded. Certainly lower than Adrian's nine. "True, but we already knew that. Nothing's changed."

Simone nodded reluctantly, but Vester knew she'd been hoping for more. She'd been hoping for a score that would convince Calissa and Hogan that she was worth having as an ally.

Now she would have to do that convincing during the Games.

* * *

><p><strong>Miriam Valence<br>****District Three Mentor**

_Alasdair Bryant, with a score of two._

_Eigen Vallant, with a score of five._

_Natasha Kovaćić, with a score of zero._

Miriam cocked an eyebrow. Not exactly what she had been expecting. Alasdair's score was normal for a twelve-year-old, and as long as Eigen had been able to stop moping and actually try to impress them, she wasn't particularly surprised that he'd managed to pull a five. But a zero? She'd never seen the Gamemakers give a zero before. "Something you'd like to share, Natasha?"

Natasha was still staring at the screen in disbelief, as if she, too, hadn't believed that they'd actually do it. "I thought … I figured my family's history would get me something. I was aiming low so I wouldn't get targeted, but…" She trailed off, but the rest was obvious. She had been aiming low, but not _that _low.

How was she going to explain this to her allies?

* * *

><p><strong>Misha Brimmer<br>****District Four Mentor**

_Barclay Mattison, with a score of two._

_Kinley Arnoult, with a score of seven._

_Calissa Hart, with a score of ten._

"Just my luck," Misha muttered. "Just _my _luck. I get the guy who looks like a Career but fights like a teddy bear."

Naomi glared. "We offered you your choice of tributes. You didn't have an opinion then."

Misha waved his hand dismissively. "Not to worry. Doesn't matter, anyway. It's not like his allies are about to boot him out of the pack like Calissa's might have if she'd turned up with such a lousy score. Kinley's not about to abandon her district partner, now, is she?"

Kinley shook her head. "Of course not."

Misha shrugged. "Then who cares what your scores were? All you've done is convince everyone you're not a threat."

Calissa rolled her eyes. "He's not."

Misha smirked. "See?"

* * *

><p><strong>Sabine Plecity<br>****District Five Mentor**

_Niles Avdeyev, with a score of zero._

_Mirami Fiyan, with a score of six._

_Mercury Helix, with a score of five._

Sabine nodded. Not bad. Not amazing, but not bad. District Five wasn't known for high scores, after all – even among their victors. Harakuise and Tania had both scored fives. She'd scored a one, herself. But even she hadn't managed a zero.

Harakuise smiled smugly. "The second zero tonight. Wonder what Niles and the Kovaćić girl have in common."

Sabine shrugged, and Niles didn't seem inclined to answer. He was sitting at the table, staring off into the distance, not even watching the screen. Clearly, he didn't care about his score. Mirami, however, offered Mercury a high five, which Mercury hesitantly returned.

Harakuise was watching Mirami closely, a strange look on his face. At last, he spoke. "Niles, may I speak to you alone?"

* * *

><p><strong>Vernon Barrow<br>****District Six Mentor**

_Luke Marsanskis, with a score of nine._

_Ryzer Hijore, with a score of nine._

_Cassandra Sake, with a score of nine._

Vernon watched as the two girls started congratulating each other, not at all fazed by their trio of high scores. Vernon shook his head. Luke's score made some sense. He was one of the older, stronger tributes. There weren't many proper Careers to compete with. If _someone _had to score high, it made sense that it would be him. Vernon had pulled a nine himself, earning a place in the Career pack.

But the creepy girl with an eye patch and the girl who was clearly ill? What had they done to impress the Gamemakers? Vernon nodded to Luke, who followed him into the next room. "Watch out for them," he advised.

Luke nodded silently. Clearly, he was just as surprised. They had both written off the two girls as non-threats. Had they been wrong this whole time?

Was the real danger closer than they had assumed?

* * *

><p><strong>Hazel Birnam<br>****District Seven Mentor**

_Jason Vaz, with a score of seven._

_Saoirse Terris, with a score of six._

_Viktoria Halisent, with a score of seven._

Hazel watched, satisfied, as Jason and Saoirse exchanged congratulations. Viktoria's expression, however, was impossible to read. "What's wrong?" Hazel asked. "A seven is pretty impressive."

Viktoria shook her head. "It's not that. Really. It's my allies. I figured I might get the lowest score, but Niles got a zero. What if…?"

She didn't say it, but Hazel understood. What if the rest did, too? Would that make them targets, and her along with them? Would that make her _their _target?

Hazel shook her head. "Let's wait and see what the other two got."

* * *

><p><strong>Lander Katz<br>****District Eight Mentor**

_Enzo Farnese, with a score of two._

_Janardan Fletcher, with a score of zero._

_Shilo Chanteau, with a score of five._

"Perfect," Lander muttered. "Just perfect. You and your ally from Five can go have a zero party together. If that doesn't paint a target right on your backs—"

"It might not," Carolina offered. "If the others think they're not a threat—"

Lander shook his head. "Don't give me any of that. It's nonsense, and you know it. A two is 'not a threat.' Enzo is 'not a threat.' Anyone who saw Fletcher and the kid from Three fighting the other day knows he didn't get a zero by being 'not a threat.' So what'd you do? Steal their spoons?"

Fletcher shrugged. "Stole a bunny."

"I fed it berries," Enzo offered helpfully.

Even Carolina didn't have anything hopeful to say about that.

* * *

><p><strong>Crispin Zephyr<br>****District Nine Mentor**

_Dennar Viesennor, with a score of five._

_Asteria Cordey, with a score of three._

_Radiance Allor, with a score of five._

"Not bad," Crispin nodded.

"I take back what I said earlier about your allies, kid," Tobiah muttered. "Apparently, everyone else's are just as bad. Or worse," he added with a pointed look at Radiance. "Whoever heard of a girl from One getting a one? It's ridiculous. What did she do? Take a nap?"

"So it's okay that my allies scored low?" Dennar asked hesitantly.

Tobiah shrugged. "Twelve-year-olds always score low. And at least none of them got a zero. So that's something."

Not much, but it was something.

* * *

><p><strong>Glenn Chester<br>****District Ten Mentor**

_Corvo Arion, with a score of seven._

_Hogan Graham, with a score of ten._

_Grace Sawyer, with a score of five._

"Well, you all blew my score out of the water," Glenn offered, earning a smile from Grace. "And Hogan, that's tied for the highest score all night. And Corvo, that's tied for the highest in your alliance."

"The others weren't much to beat, apparently," Corvo shrugged. Two of his allies had scored a zero, which was clearly worrying him. But he quickly changed the subject. "Nice job, Grace."

Grace nodded. "You, too. Both of you."

Glenn smiled. They _had _done well. But whether that was a good thing or a bad thing remained to be seen.

* * *

><p><strong>Elijah Whitaker<br>****District Eleven Mentor**

_Lynher Palmieri, with a score of six._

_Bakaari Reeves, with a score of eight._

_Jazz Farnahm, with a score of eight._

Elijah nodded, satisfied, as Lynher breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't an amazing score, but it was enough. It was average, and sometimes average was good.

Lynher turned to his district partners. "Nice job, both of you."

Jazz didn't acknowledge the compliment, but Bakaari smiled. "Thanks. You, too."

Elijah smiled a little as they all turned back to the screen. There wasn't much else to say. Three good, solid scores was quite the relief. He just hoped their good luck continued.

* * *

><p><strong>Silas Grisom<br>****District Twelve Mentor**

_Brennan Aldaine, with a score of six._

_Francis Cooper, with a score of six._

_Blythe Ayers, with a score of two._

An arched eyebrow was all the acknowledgement Francis gave that his fifteen-year-old district partner's score was equal to his own. Brennan's attention, for his part, was on Blythe. "I couldn't do it," Blythe whispered, trying hard not to let the others see her cry. "I just couldn't do it."

Brennan wrapped an arm around her. "It's okay. Really, it's okay. You didn't get a zero, so they must have been impressed by _something _you did."

"He's got a point," Silas agreed. "They haven't exactly been shy about handing out lower scores. You must have done something right. And that gives you something to build on."

Blythe dried her eyes. "You think so?"

Silas grinned. "Absolutely."

* * *

><p><strong>Harakuise Swallot<br>****District Five Mentor**

His heart was pounding.

Harakuise waited until everyone besides Niles had left before allowing a smile to slip onto his face. It was almost as if he was in the Games again. His muscles tense, the adrenaline racing, the blood pumping. Confidently, he took a few steps towards Niles, who rose from the table in response. "Are you sure you want to do this?" Niles asked wryly.

Harakuise smirked. "Oh, yes. I'm very sure. We need to talk."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"I made you a generous offer."

"Offering to free one person isn't a generous offer when _you're _the only reason they were arrested in the first place."

"I was hardly the reason. Your family's never exactly been discreet regarding your feelings about the Capitol. I consider myself merely a messenger."

"A tool."

"An instrument, if you like. The point is, with or without me, your family would be facing execution – possibly even sooner, if I were not directly involved. You may have me to thank for a little of the borrowed time you've been living on."

"I'm supposed to be grateful that you've postponed their execution so you can toy with me?"

"You're supposed to be grateful that I offered to spare your sister's life. But, clearly, you're not."

Niles scoffed. "What gave it away?"

"The steak knife you have hidden beneath your right sleeve," Harakuise suggested. "If you mean to use it, then get on with it. But know that, in doing so, you're forfeiting your family's lives – and your own."

"My life was already forfeit," Niles growled. "You know rebels don't make it out of the Games alive."

Harakuise shrugged. "I should know. A young man named Zione Brink would agree with you."

"Is that a name I should know?"

"Absolutely not. His name is long forgotten. And yours will be, too. History is written by the victors, Niles, and, sadly for your family, if they are remembered at all, history will see the Avdeyevs as the villains."

A strange determination crept over Niles' face. "Well, then. Who am I to argue with history?"

And he lunged.

Weaponless, Harakuise dodged the first blow. And the second. The third grazed his side, and he made a show of overreacting, then trying to recover his dignity. "Is that the best you've got?" he called.

It wasn't. Niles took the opportunity to charge forward, and Harakuise didn't have time to dodge. The pair of them tumbled to the floor, and Harakuise braced himself for what he knew was coming. What had to happen. The two rolled over each other for a moment, but Harakuise made sure that Niles came out on top. He struggled enough to make it seem convincing, but Niles quickly pinned him. Knife in hand, he grinned down at Harakuise. Harakuise glared back and caught Niles' hand as it plunged down towards his chest, redirecting the blow a few inches to the left.

Pain erupted in his chest as the blade pierced deep, but not fatally. Niles drew the blade out and prepared to strike again, but, at that moment, the door opened, and a dozen men in uniform rushed in. The noise drew Tania and Sabine, as well, and both rushed to Harakuise's side as the guards restrained Niles. Mirami and Mercury quickly followed, and Harakuise caught a glimpse of Mirami's horrified expression.

Then he blacked out.

* * *

><p>"You're an idiot."<p>

Harakuise smiled a little as Tania's face came into focus. "If I were an idiot, I'd be dead. Everything went according to plan."

"Plan?" Tania demanded. "He stabbed you!"

"Yes."

"You _wanted_ him to try to kill you?"

"Wanted? No. Planned for? Yes." He grimaced and decided against trying to sit up. "It was only a matter of time before he made an attempt. Better for it to happen on my terms. The guards will see that he doesn't get a second chance."

Tania shook her head. "That doesn't explain it. If you'd just told them you _suspected_ he was going to try to kill you, they could have put an armed guard on him day and night. He never would have gotten a _first _chance. Instead, you let him take a shot at you. Why?"

"Why not?"

"Is this about his family? If you'd wanted to make sure they'd die, why offer to free his sister?"

"It's not about his family."

"Then what _is_ it about?"

"Mirami."

That caught Tania off-guard. "What?"

"I need to speak to her. Please."

Reluctantly, Tania did as he asked, ushering a tired-looking Mirami through the door. Harakuise shook his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't even think about the time. It must be—"

"Three in the morning," Tania offered.

Harakuise winced. "Sorry."

"Couldn't sleep much, anyway," Mirami admitted. "What do you need?"

Harakuise shook his head. "Actually, this is about what _you_ need." He glanced at Tania, who took that as her cue to leave. "You need an angle," Harakuise continued after she had gone. "And I just gave you one."

"I don't understand."

"Niles – he tried to kill me. How do you think the audience will react when they find out?"

"They'll hate him," Mirami concluded immediately.

Harakuise nodded. "Exactly. He's just painted a huge target on his back. Everyone who wants the sponsors' attention in the arena is going to go after him. So you have to make sure you get there first."

"You want me to kill Niles?"

"No, _you_ want you to kill Niles. He'll be expecting the other tributes to target him, but he might not expect it from you. So far, you've done nothing to make him think you're a threat."

"But he's—"

"Older? Stronger? Yes, he is. But, between you and your allies, you should be able to bring him down."

"He has allies, too."

Harakuise shook his head. "Not after tonight, believe me. Once word gets out about what he's done, the others will want to get as far away from him as possible – if they don't target him themselves."

Mirami nodded. "Okay. I'll do it."

Harakuise smiled. "Good girl."

Mirami started to leave, but, after a moment, turned back. "Did you … did you do all this for me?"

Harakuise shook his head. "Not just for you – although if it saves your life in the process, all the better. But, to be honest, I did it for all of District Five. For District Five as I want it to be – united and strong. I need you to show the Capitol that Niles doesn't speak for all of us – or even most of us. Show the Capitol – show the district – that he and his family stand alone."

Mirami nodded. "I will."

* * *

><p>"<em>I made a decision, and now I must face the consequences."<em>


	24. Interviews: The Language of Hope

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **First, the results of the "final eight" poll are up on the blog.

Second, there's a new poll on my profile. This is the one that **will **have an effect on the Games. This time, I'm asking which tribute(s) _you_ would sponsor. This isn't who you think _will_ get sponsors; this is who _you_ would choose if you were a sponsor in the Games. Maybe you like Careers. Maybe you root for the underdog. Maybe you like clever tributes; maybe you like tributes who tug at your heartstrings; maybe you like a good villain. You choose. Feel free to vote for as many as you like.

As I said, this poll will have an effect on the Games. The top two or three tributes will, at some point during the Games (assuming they survive the bloodbath) receive a sponsor gift. What and when are my choice, but they will get _something_. These may not be the _only _tributes who receive a gift, but this is the only way to ensure that they _will_.

If one of the top few tributes happens to die in the bloodbath, their gift will pass to an ally, a district partner, or, if neither of those is an option, to the next-highest-scoring tribute in the poll.

This poll will be up until the Games begin, so if you'd like to wait until after the interviews to see which tributes make an impression there, feel free to do so.

* * *

><p><strong>Interviews Part One<br>****The Language of Hope**

* * *

><p><strong>Terence Willis, 18<br>****Brother of Elaine Willis**

He had to keep hoping.

Terence held Ava close as both of them waited impatiently for the interviews to begin. The two of them were seated on the floor, far away from their parents. As much of an act of defiance as the pair of them could muster.

It was their parents' fault. Their fault Elaine wasn't prepared. She'd wanted to join Terence in training to become a Peacekeeper, but they had said no. Several times. Of course, training to be a Peacekeeper was different than training for the Games, but it would have been something.

Still, her five in training gave him some hope. She must have picked up some useful skills in order to earn even an average score, because she'd had absolutely none a week ago. All their parents had taught her was how to set a table properly, how to sit like a lady, how to dance at a party.

Useless.

Except right now. For these next few minutes, when appearances were crucial, she had the skills she needed. At last, she took the stage expertly, daintily, wearing a long, pale yellow gown with thin straps. She spoke softly, sweetly, answering Cornelius' first few questions with ease. Finally, he turned the topic to her family.

"So, Elaine," he smiled, leaning forward. "I hear you have a few brave defenders of the peace in your family. Is that right?"

Elaine smiled sweetly. "My father's the Head Peacekeeper in District One, yes. My brother is in training, as well, hoping to follow in his footsteps. He even gave me his Peacekeeper tags for my district token." She held them up to show the audience.

"He must be very proud of you," Cornelius agreed.

Elaine smiled shyly. "I hope so. I know I'm proud of him."

The words brought a lump to Terence's throat. He was proud of her, of course. But she had no reason to be proud of him. The moment he had caught her at the reaping, everything had changed. He had grabbed his own sister and dragged her to the stage to face her death, and he'd done it without a second thought.

That very afternoon, he'd quit his training. His father had been able to see to it that he wasn't punished for leaving, but that was the last time they'd really spoken. If Elaine came home, maybe the rift could be healed, but until then…

Terence watched as, all too soon, his sister's time was up, and the other girl took the stage, wearing a blue velvet dress and black shoes. She was doing her best to smile, but it was easy to tell she was uncomfortable as she took her seat across from Cornelius.

Cornelius, for his part, did his best to help her out. A few questions about the district, a few questions about her family. "So, Henri," he said at last. "Are you excited to be part of the very first Quarter Quell? After all, there are surely many people in your district who are envious of this opportunity."

Henri hesitated. Anyone who was watching could tell she wasn't the least bit excited. "Of course I'm excited," she agreed. Then, after a slight pause. "Well, maybe excited isn't the best word. But I'm … curious."

"Curious," Cornelius repeated. "Please, go on."

Henri leaned forward a little. "My father always says that the best way to get to know someone is to fight them – make them angry. That's when you see the real person. Well, I've never been in that sort of fight before – not really. So I guess you could say I'm curious about what's going to happen when I am – what I'll find out about myself."

Terence shook his head. From the sound of it, her father and his would get along just perfectly.

After a few more questions, Henri's time was up, and the boy took the stage, wearing a green button-down shirt with a wide silver collar, black pants, and silver boots with buckles down the sides.

"So, Daedem," Cornelius grinned. "Tell us about life back home. What do you do back in District One?"

Daedem shrugged. "A little of this and a little of that. What do you do when you're not interviewing teenagers on the way to their deaths?"

Cornelius looked uncomfortable, unsure whether that had been meant as a joke or not. After a moment, however, he shrugged it off. "A little of this and a little of that," he returned. "But I'm sure the audience doesn't want to hear about silly old me. Tell us about _you_. What's your family like?"

Daedem scoffed. "Make up your mind. First you want me to tell you about myself, and then you want to hear about my family. What's my family got to do with anything? Why do you care about them? Are they going into the arena? I don't think so. Mind you, I wish they were, instead. _I _certainly don't want to be here."

Terence smiled in spite of himself as Cornelius fumbled for a moment in an attempt to help the boy save face. But Daedem simply wouldn't play along. Terence shrugged. He was only saying what the other two had surely been thinking. Now that he thought about it, Elaine probably wished _he_ was in the Games instead of her. With his Peacekeeper training, he'd surely have a better chance.

Terence shook the thought from his head. Elaine had a chance. She had to. She had to come home.

It was the only way to fix what he'd done.

* * *

><p><strong>Annabelle Mors<br>****Mother of Adrian Mors**

She had to keep hoping.

Annabelle watched, still as stone, as the first three tributes came and went. They were so different. So different from District One's typical Career tributes. Smaller. Weaker. Easier targets.

Or maybe she was simply seeing what she wanted to see. Annabelle fought back a wave of guilt as she remembered that somewhere in District One – and somewhere in each of the other districts, as well – were three mothers who wanted their children to come home as badly as she wanted to see Adrian again. The others were competition, yes, but they were also children. They had their own loved ones who were waiting anxiously to see them on the screen.

What made Adrian's life any more important than the lives of their sons and daughters?

He'd wanted this, after all – years ago. He'd wanted to train, wanted to volunteer. Not for the chance to kill, but for the chance to prove himself, to make a better life for the two of them. Mortimer had denied him that chance, but now he had it, anyway.

But was it still what he wanted?

Annabelle forced her attention back to the screen as the girl from Two took the stage, wearing a long, silver, strapless dress and matching silver shoes. Cornelius greeted her warmly, and the girl smiled a little, but it was a cold smile. Indifferent.

She didn't warm up much as the interview went on. "So, Simone," Cornelius smiled warmly, trying to thaw the atmosphere. "I hear your mother's the mayor. That must be very exciting."

Simone shrugged. "We haven't really spoken in years – not until she came to say goodbye." Annabelle wasn't particularly surprised by that; she hadn't even realized the mayor _had_ a daughter. Not that she'd ever been interested in politics; she was more concerned with putting food on the table.

"That must have been a very emotional moment, then," Cornelius reasoned. But it was clear he was grasping at straws now. It was hard to picture the girl next to him having _any _sort of emotional moment.

Simone shook her head. "We didn't say much – just went our separate ways. I suppose if I win we'll see each other now and then – the mayor and the victor. Has a nice ring to it."

Annabelle shook her head. Maybe she'd been tough and impatient with Adrian at times, but she'd never been distant. She'd never ignored him. She couldn't imagine going years without speaking to him. She had barely managed for the last few days. If he never came home…

No. No, she couldn't start thinking like that. Not now. He had to come home. He deserved it. They deserved it. This girl's parents might not even notice she was gone. She didn't want to think about what she would do without Adrian.

Soon, the girl's time was up, and the younger boy took her place, wearing a dark blue suit and pants. Unlike the girl, he was all smiles. Eager. Prepared. Or, at least, pretending to be.

Pretending very well.

"So, Dewan, are you feeling ready for the Games tomorrow?" Cornelius asked with a grin.

Dewan nodded quickly – a little too quickly. "Sure am, Cornelius. To be honest, I was planning to wait a few more years; they usually choose eighteen-year-olds to volunteer – figure they'd be the most prepared. But there's something exciting about being in a Quarter Quell, even if it's not quite what I'd planned."

"So are you saying you were planning to volunteer, that you've been training?"

Dewan nodded. "Of course. Most of us in Two – we dream of volunteering. But so few of us get the chance. So, now that I've got it, who am I to complain about a year or two one way or the other? I'm here, and I couldn't be happier."

Annabelle sighed. Part of it was true; so many teenagers _did_ dream of volunteering. So many young people wasting their lives. And for what? Most of them already had more than enough. For them, life as a victor wouldn't be much of a step up from the lives they already had. Adrian had seen the Games as a chance for a better life. Most of them were just in it for the thrill, the excitement – not the long-term results.

Maybe that would give him a better chance.

Annabelle realized she was holding her breath as the other boy left and Adrian took the stage, wearing a light blue button-down shirt, a dark grey jacket, and grey pants. Where Simone had been cold and Dewan had been enthusiastic, Adrian was simply present. Silent until Cornelius asked him something, then ready with his response almost immediately.

"So, Adrian," Cornelius smiled. "A nine in training – Why don't you tell us about that?"

"There's not much to tell," Adrian admitted. "I haul rocks for a living, so I'm pretty strong. I guess that made an impression."

"Do you think your experience will help you in the arena?"

Adrian arched an eyebrow. "If the arena's a rock quarry, sure." The audience's laughter caught him off-guard; he hadn't meant for it to be funny. But he recovered quickly. "It probably will. I've never killed a person, but I dropped a slab of rock on a cat once. Accidentally, of course, but … well, killing is killing, and that's probably more experience than most people have."

Annabelle nodded. She remembered that day – three years ago. What Adrian hadn't told the audience was that he had come home raging, furious that the cat had gotten in the way, angry with himself for being so careless. He hadn't taken it well then, and he wouldn't now, but he was older now. More in control. He could handle it.

He would have to. He had to come home.

She didn't know what she would do without him.

* * *

><p><strong>Janice Fletcher, 12<br>****Friend of Alasdair Bryant**

She had to keep hoping.

Janice sat on the couch with her parents and her little brother, watching the screen intently. She'd seen the interviews before, of course; she'd been watching the Games with her family longer than she could remember. But this year was different. She'd never known anyone in the Games before. But, as sorry as she felt for Alasdair, she couldn't shake another feeling: a feeling of relief.

She was still relieved that it wasn't her.

She'd been terrified at the reaping, despite everyone telling her how rare it was for a twelve-year-old to be chosen. She'd never taken tesserae. She'd had only one slip in the bowl.

But so had Alasdair.

But she had to keep hoping that maybe he could beat the odds again. Maybe he could come home. It had been more than twenty years since a twelve-year-old had won, but that didn't mean it couldn't happen. He had a chance.

He had to.

Janice's parents held her close as the girl from Three took the stage, wearing a beautiful, tightly-fitted, green dress. Cornelius didn't waste any time commenting on it. "Well, Natasha, you look very beautiful tonight."

Natasha batted her eyelashes playfully. "Why, thank you, Cornelius. I've been saving it for an occasion just like this."

Cornelius let out a good-natured laugh. "You don't say. It _is_ quite an occasion, isn't it. You're the fifteenth member of your family to take part in the Games, am I right?"

"That's right, Cornelius," Natasha agreed.

"Quite a record, if I may say so. But there's another record you're hoping to break, isn't there."

"Yes, there is. We've had fourteen tributes before me – but no victors. I'm hoping to break that streak."

Janice shook her head. She wondered how Cornelius didn't get sick of it – everyone saying they were hoping to win. Of course they were. Every tribute who had sat onstage for the past twenty-five years had been hoping to win. But only twenty-four had. And this year would only add one to the total.

One out of thirty-six.

Janice forced her attention back to the screen as Alasdair took the stage, wearing a dark brown pinstripe suit which was probably an attempt to make him look older. It wasn't working. Alasdair was already fidgeting with the buttons as he sat down next to Cornelius, avoiding eye contact with both him and the cameras.

Cornelius made the best of it, but it was quickly and painfully obvious that Alasdair hated the attention he was getting. Every question was awkwardly turned into a compliment about how wonderful the Capitol was, how excellent the food was, how delightful it was to meet the other tributes.

At last, Cornelius managed to turn the conversation back to District Three. "So, Alasdair, is there anything you'd like to say to your family back home?"

At last, Alasdair glanced up at the cameras. "I'd like to say … Don't give up on me. Because I haven't."

The lie cut through Janice like a knife, because it was obvious from his expression that he _had_. He had given up. He wasn't saying hello; he was saying goodbye. To his family. And to her.

"And Janice," Alasdair added, surprising her. "Thank you for … for being my friend. It meant a lot."

Janice brushed a few tears from her eyes as her parents held her tighter. She hadn't even been a very good friend. She talked to him, yes, but the conversations had always been about her. Her problems, her troubles, the news she wanted to share. She knew so little about him in return.

And yet he considered her a friend. Maybe his best friend. Worth saying a personal goodbye to in front of all of Panem.

She didn't deserve that.

Janice was still crying as the other boy took Alasdair's place, wearing a dark green suit, a scowl planted firmly on his face. No goodbyes from him. No words of thanks. All of his focus was on the Games.

"So, Eigen, you earned the highest training score in your district this year. Anything you'd like to tell us about that?"

Eigen shrugged. "Not sure what you want to hear about it, Cornelius. I beat out a twelve-year-old and a girl who earned a zero. Not much of a competition, if you ask me."

Cornelius leaned forward a little. "So you don't think much of your district partners, then?"

Eigen scoffed. "Well, I wouldn't say that. There is one thing I think they'll be much better at."

"And what's that?" Cornelius asked.

Eigen shrugged. "Dying."

Janice ran to her room and slammed the door. He was right. He was rude and cruel, but he was right. What chance did Alasdair have against people like him? People who were willing to kill. People who were _eager _to kill.

Janice buried her face in her pillow. He had to have a chance. He had to. He had to come home.

She had to tell him she was sorry.

* * *

><p><strong>Felicity Cambray, 19<br>****Friend of Kinley Arnoult**

They had to keep hoping.

Felicity, Mariah, Jaqueline, and Carolene had gathered at Felicity's house, as they always did to watch the Games. But this year was different. For the past few years, the tributes had been people they had known a little. Acquaintances. People they had seen once or twice around the training center. But no one they knew well. And, for as long as they could remember, volunteers. People who had wanted to be there.

Kinley had never wanted this.

None of them, in fact, had ever seriously considered volunteering. They'd never bothered to enroll with any of the private trainers. They'd simply gone to the center, played around with the various weapons on their own, with an instructor occasionally wandering over to give them advice if he or she had a little free time. Nothing serious. Nothing committed.

In fact, for the last year, Felicity herself had been too old to volunteer, even if she'd wanted to. So had Carolene. But they'd accompanied their friends to training, anyway, because it was fun. Because it was something to do.

Now it was something that might save Kinley's life.

Felicity and her friends all huddled closer together as District Four came on. The other girl from Four took the stage first, wearing a light sea-green ball gown and blue high heels. She took her seat next to Cornelius confidently, already smiling – a fierce, determined smile, looking every inch a Career.

Cornelius grinned back. "So, Calissa, a ten in training. You must be very proud."

Calissa shrugged. "Numbers are just that – numbers. Two of us got tens. And how many tributes with tens have actually won in the past?"

Cornelius made a show of pretending to count on his fingers. "I believe it's been four."

Calissa nodded. "Exactly. Ask me again when I'm sitting next to you after the Games – after I've made it five – and _then _I'll be proud."

She had a point. Tributes had won with tens. But tributes had also won with twos and threes – and once with a one. Low scores didn't mean anything once the tributes were actually in the Games.

Still, she and her friends had been relived to see that Kinley had managed a seven. Of the five of them, she'd never shown the most promise during training, but, evidently, she'd picked up more than they knew.

Either that or the other tributes were even worse.

Soon, Calissa's time was up, and Kinley took her place, wearing a light blue, puffy dress, with white frills that gave the impression of sea foam. She was smiling – a warm, friendly smile, nothing like Calissa's fearsome determination. Kinley's smile, as always, was welcoming, inviting, familiar.

Felicity was happy to see it again.

"So, Kinley," Cornelius grinned. "May I assume from your seven in training that you've had at least a bit of training on the side?"

Kinley smiled sweetly. "I've had my share. Never thought I'd be picked to volunteer, really, so it's quite an honor to be here."

Cornelius nodded. "That it is. Tell me, have you known any of the tributes from your district in the past few years?"

Kinley nodded. "Actually, I knew the girl last year – Aurora. We weren't close, but we'd met at school. Seen each other occasionally at the training center. I didn't really know her much before the Games, but I … I really admired the way she fought, the way she treated her allies. When Elijah left the pack, she was the only one who was convinced that he was coming back – that maybe he had gone to scout the area and gotten lost or something. She trusted him, and even though that sort of trust got her killed … it was admirable."

Felicity nodded. She had no doubt that Kinley had already found a group of tributes she would trust with her life. Whether or not those tributes deserved her trust … well, that was another matter. But Kinley would trust them to the bitter end, nonetheless.

Soon, her time was up, and the boy from Four took her place, wearing a black tuxedo and a big smile. He greeted Cornelius warmly, even pumping his arm up and down after offering a handshake. Felicity smiled a little. Was this one of Kinley's allies?

Soon, she had no doubt that, yes, he was. He was exactly the sort of person Kinley would latch onto immediately – warm, friendly, funny. Soon, he and Cornelius were both laughing – laughing about the Games, about the two he'd gotten in training, about what he must have done to get it. The boy joked that the Gamemakers must not have appreciated his creativity.

"Well, I guess you'll show them," Cornelius laughed. "Speaking of creativity, this being a Quarter Quell, it's safe to assume that the arena will be a bit more creative than normal. What would you do for an arena, if you were in charge?"

Barclay grinned. "Well, I quite enjoyed our chariot costumes this year, so maybe a pirate ship. Or more than one pirate ship, and tributes would have to swing from one ship to another on ropes. And there could be fish and turtles and sharks and maybe a giant octopus."

Cornelius smiled. "Sounds like an arena that would favor District Four."

Barclay shrugged. "Well, you asked me what _I'd_ do, and I suppose I've got a little bias there."

Cornelius laughed. "Well, I suppose we can't blame you for that."

Felicity smiled a little. She almost hoped that _was _close to what the Gamemakers had in mind. It was certainly true that there had been arenas that favored one district or another before. A field. A farm. A forest. But there had also been arenas that were seemingly random. An airport. A school. A carnival. Last year had been a seaside village, so it was probably too much to hope for that the arena would be water-themed again.

Felicity shook her head, trying to convince herself that it didn't really matter what the arena was. Yes, the arena had an effect, but most of the killing was done by the tributes themselves. The tributes were the ones to worry about.

Felicity could only hope Kinley was as worried about them as she was. That she would be ready if it turned out her allies weren't so trustworthy, after all.

Yes. Yes, she would be ready. She had to be. She had to come home.

She had to come back to her friends.

* * *

><p>"<em>The Universe speaks with many languages, but only one voice. It speaks in the language of hope. It speaks in the language of trust."<em>


	25. Interviews: The Language of Strength

**Disclaimer: **The Hunger Games is not mine.

**Note: **And here's our second batch of interviews. Not much else to say this time.

* * *

><p><strong>Interviews Part Two<br>****The Language of Strength**

* * *

><p><strong>Metisse Avdeyev, 14<br>****Sister of Niles Avdeyev**

She had to be strong.

Metisse clenched her fists tightly, watching the screen through the bars of her cell. The Peacekeepers had separated them shortly after arresting them; she hadn't seen her father or her brother Nyran in days. And Niles … He was as good as dead already.

Chances were good, of course, that they were all as good as dead. Niles being reaped couldn't have been a coincidence. Nor was it coincidence that the three of them had been arrested moments later, and that they were still alive. They hadn't been killed yet. Hadn't even been condemned yet.

They were waiting. Waiting for Niles to die. Then they would follow.

Metisse swallowed hard. She wouldn't cry. That was what they wanted. That was why they had separated her from her father and brother. They wanted to break her. They wanted to break all of them.

But she wouldn't give them that satisfaction. She would die first. Probably quite literally.

Her father had always told them not to be scared – not to hesitate to give their lives if their cause was just. But, now that it came down to it, she _was_ afraid. But not just of dying. She was even more afraid – terrified, even – that she was dying for nothing.

Because what would their deaths accomplish, in the end? The four of them would simply serve as examples to frighten the rest of the district. Examples of what happened to those who dared to speak out against the Capitol.

That was all they had done, after all. Speak out. They hadn't killed anyone. Hadn't attacked anyone. They'd protested, but they didn't have much of a following. They weren't really a threat. Weren't really a danger.

Maybe that was why they had to be stopped _now_, before they _became _a threat. Metisse nodded. That was it. The Capitol wasn't frightened of what they were now, but they were frightened of what they might _become_, given the right amount of time.

So they wouldn't be given that time.

Metisse looked up as District Five came on and the younger girl took the stage, wearing a gown of shimmery black silk. Metisse couldn't help remembering how the girl had skipped to the stage, grinning, at the reaping. But she wasn't smiling now. Not even a little.

Neither was Cornelius, whose attitude had suddenly grown serious – almost somber. "So, Mirami, most of us have already heard about the unfortunate incident last night. But why don't you tell us – in your own words – what happened?"

Mirami nodded solemnly. "You have to understand, I didn't see most of it. We had all gone to our rooms – all except Harakuise and Niles. I heard a … a noise. When I ran out to see what it was, I saw … I saw men pulling Niles off of Harakuise. He had a … a knife. And there was blood. It took me a few seconds to realize what had happened – that Niles had tried to kill Harakuise."

Metisse stared. Niles had tried to kill Harakuise? Obviously, he hadn't been successful, or the girl wouldn't have said 'tried to.' But the fact that he had even made an attempt filled her with pride. Realizing that he was going to die, anyway, Niles had set his mind on accomplishing something. Whether or not he had succeeded, he had let them know that he wasn't going to go quietly.

And neither would she.

Cornelius was shaking his head. "Such a terrible experience. Do you have any idea what might have come over him?"

Mirami shook her head. "He was probably scared – plain and simple. Maybe he thought that after he killed Harakuise, he could get away – try to escape. He was a coward. It's as simple as that."

Metisse clenched her teeth. Her brother was _not _a coward. He was braver than the rest of them combined, because he had _done_ something. Something that said, "No more. We will not give in. We will fight back."

If only others had the will to follow.

Soon, the girl's time was up, and the other girl took the stage, wearing a lilac-colored dress, a light blue sweater, and a pink bow in her hair. She, at least, was smiling, which seemed to lighten the mood. "So, Mercury," Cornelius nodded. "Would you give us your opinion on what happened last night?"

"I didn't see much, either," Mercury admitted. "I'm just glad he's all right. After everything he's done for District Five – after everything the Capitol has done for us through the victors – it would be terrible for him to die so senselessly."

"Then you agree that it was a senseless act – that he had done nothing to provoke this madness?"

"Of course it was senseless!" Mercury agreed immediately. "He's a victor. A mentor. He's here to help save our lives. Not my life, personally – Sabine's my mentor – but the life of someone from District Five. And everything he's done back in the district – helping the orphans, the homeless, punishing criminals. He's a hero."

Metisse glared. Were their mentors coaching them, or did they honestly believe all of this? Did they actually see Harakuise as the hero? Metisse clenched her fists tightly, waiting for Niles to come and set the record straight.

There was a brief silence after the girl was finished, but, at last, her brother was led onstage – handcuffed, his feet in shackles, with a guard gripping each arm. The guards ushered him to the chair and chained him in place, then left. All the while, Niles said nothing – but his glare said everything.

Cornelius, on the other hand, seemed completely unfazed. In fact, his usual, cheerful smile had returned. "So, Niles, care to give us your account of what happened last night?" Niles said nothing. "What? Nothing to say in your own defense?"

Metisse leaned forward. _Tell them, Niles. Tell them what a monster Harakuise is. Tell them to stand up against the Capitol. Tell them that the districts deserve better than to have children sent to their deaths. _Tell_ them._

Still, Niles said nothing, though he stirred a little, clearly uncomfortable. So Cornelius continued. "So are we to assume that it's true, then – that you attempted to murder your mentor in an act of selfishness and cowardice?"

That brought Niles to his feet, straining against his chains, mouth open in protest. But, instead of words, only grunts and wails emerged. Only then, as the guards rushed onstage to sedate him and drag him away, did Metisse realize what had happened. What they had done. They hadn't wanted her brother to tell the audience the truth, so they had silenced him the only way they knew how.

They had turned him into an Avox.

Metisse buried her face in her hands. Niles' voice – his words – had always meant so much to him. And now the Capitol had taken even that away from him. Because they were afraid. Because they were cowards. Because they were weak.

But she would be strong for Niles.

* * *

><p><strong>Matt Todd, 18<br>****Brother of Luke Marsanskis**

They had to be strong.

Matt and Erik sat together, watching – as they had for the last five years – from their house in Victors' Village. Only this year, everything was different. They were used to Vernon being gone – he was always gone during the Games. And he always came back.

But would Luke?

Matt squeezed Erik's hand tightly. Luke had as good a chance as anyone else. Better, probably. He'd gotten a nine in training, after all. And he would have Vernon there to help him.

But Vernon wouldn't be in the Games with him. As much as they knew he wanted to, Vernon couldn't be there when it mattered most. Luke would have to rely on himself.

Matt shook his head. All three of them had learned to rely on themselves before Vernon had taken them in. All three of them had been living on the streets, begging or stealing to get their next meal, caring for each other because no one else would. Those memories were buried beneath the five years of plenty that Vernon had provided, but they were still there, waiting to surface again.

Waiting to be used.

After all the drama in District Five, Cornelius was clearly hoping to get back in a normal rhythm. He was grinning as the younger girl from Six took the stage, wearing a long, flowing black dress, stitched with intricate patterns that matched her eye patch. She giggled as she took a seat next to Cornelius, but he smiled back, completely unfazed.

"So, Ryzer," he leaned forwards, and the girl quickly mimicked him. "Nines in training for your whole district. What do you make of that?"

Matt had been wondering the same. He hadn't expected even Luke to get a nine, let alone all three of them. Maybe without the normal amount of Careers in the mix, the Gamemakers' standards were lower. But still, it seemed odd.

Ryzer simply giggled, then sang out in a high-pitched voice. "_Three times three to make up nine. Three of us will not survive."_

That got Cornelius' attention. "Are you saying that not all three of you will survive, or that none of you will?"

Ryzer burst out laughing. "Not _us_, silly. _With present, past, and future, too, Gamemakers know what to do._"

"I'm not sure I understand—"

"Of course you don't. _All the questions, all the lights – they don't help improve your sight_."

Matt smiled a little, in spite of himself. The girl was completely insane. But it _was _pretty funny to see Cornelius so completely flustered.

Soon, her time was up, and the other girl took her place, wearing a short, puffed, silver skirt, a long-sleeved black top with a high neck and decorated with half-wheels, and black boots. "So, Cassandra," Cornelius began hesitantly, perhaps worried that the girl would answer the same way as her district partner. "What do you make of your district's high training scores?"

Cassandra shrugged, indifferent. "I know what I did to get it, and I don't really care what they did. I'm not worried about them. I'm worried about myself. And focusing on saving myself doesn't include being curious about what my district partners might have shown the Gamemakers."

Cornelius nodded. "Focus. Determination. I like that. Can you give us any insight into what you have planned for the Games?"

"I plan to kill," Cassandra answered plainly. "That's all there is to it, in the end, isn't there? All the strategy, all the clever plans and schemes – it all boils down to whether someone's willing to kill or not. And I am."

Matt looked away. She had a point. Regardless of what Luke or any of the others had planned, a victor had to be willing to kill. Was Luke? His high training score suggested the answer was yes, but Matt still had a hard time picturing his brother killing anyone.

Then again, he had a hard time picturing Vernon killing anyone. And he had. Maybe anyone could, when it came down to it. When their life was on the line, maybe anyone could become a killer.

Finally, the girl's time was up, and Luke took the stage, wearing a black suit and black boots. Unlike Cassandra, he was smiling a little, but not the same giddy smile as Ryzer. A strong, confident smile the Cornelius gave right back, perhaps grateful that things had returned to normal.

"So, Luke," Cornelius nodded in the direction of the girls who had left. "Nines for all three of you. What do you make of it?"

Luke nodded. "Well, like Cassandra said, I know what I did to get it. I don't know what they did, but it must have been good. Only two tributes scored higher than the three of us, so that says a lot."

"Indeed, it does," Cornelius agreed. "Do you think this will have any effect on your strategy for the Games?"

Luke thought for a moment. "It certainly makes them a threat – the two of them working together and all. They're certainly a pair to watch out for – maybe even a pair to target first."

"And that doesn't bother you – the idea of targeting your own district partners?"

Luke shook his head. "Not at all. They're going to have to die, anyway, if I'm going to win. Whether it's me or someone else who kills them – I don't know why that should make much of a difference."

Matt nodded. Good words. Strong words. Exactly what the audience would want to hear. But did Luke mean it? Was he really planning to go after his district partners first? Or was it just a ploy to create drama, win sponsors?

Maybe Luke was right, in the end. Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe it didn't matter what he did – what he had to do – in order to come home. All that mattered was that he did – and that, when he did, his family would be waiting for him. So they would watch – he and Erik – and whatever their brother did, whatever he was forced to do, they would stay strong.

They would be strong for Luke.

* * *

><p><strong>Levi Terris, 15<br>****Brother of Saoirse Terris**

They had to be strong.

Levi sat on the floor with his parents, older brother Trevor, and younger brother Armin, watching the screen in anticipation. He'd never gone a day without seeing his sister, and now it had been days – ever since the tribute parade. And now this was the last time they would see her before the arena.

Before the Games.

Levi huddled close to his brothers. Part of him wished that their trick at the reaping had worked. That he had been able to volunteer, instead. Maybe he wouldn't have a better chance – Saoirse had managed a six in training, after all – but at least it would mean he wouldn't be the one waiting here. Just waiting. Unable to do anything that might – in even the smallest way – affect the outcome of the Games.

At last, District Seven began, and Saoirse took the stage, wearing a white blouse, black pants, and black high heels. She was smiling as she sat down next to Cornelius – her usual, playful smirk that Levi had seen every day for as long as he could remember.

Cornelius didn't waste any time turning the topic to them. "So, Saoirse, am I correct in assuming that you knew the boys who tried to volunteer for you at the reaping? Adoring suitors, perhaps?"

Saoirse held back a laugh. "Actually, they're my brothers."

"Your brothers!" Cornelius made a show of acting surprised, though someone had surely told him in advance. "Well, that's some display of family loyalty, even if it was all in vain. Is there anything you'd like to say to the brave young men watching?"

Saoirse nodded. "Trevor, I'm … I'm glad you're safe. It was your last year, so I'm glad they didn't let you volunteer for me. You're safe for good now. Armin, don't you dare touch my stuff while I'm gone!" She was still smiling, but it was clearly forced, and there were tears in her eyes. "Levi, that prank we were planning – I'm sorry I let you go through with it on your own." She was crying now. "Mom, Dad, I'm sorry I—" Whatever the rest of the sentence was, it was muffled by her sobbing. "I love you all," she managed at last.

Cornelius did his best to soothe her, but it did no good. Levi realized he was crying, as well. "We love you, too, Saoirse," their mother whispered, as if she could hear them. Levi buried his face in Trevor's shirt. It had never quite felt real, until this moment.

His sister was going to die.

He would probably never see her again.

But at least she had said it. She had said goodbye. She had told them she loved them. And she knew they loved her. Maybe that was the best they could ask for, in the end: each other's love.

Soon, Saoirse's time was up, and the other girl took her place, wearing a dark green dress and a smile that, unlike Saoirse's, didn't fade as Cornelius began asking questions. "So, Viktoria," Cornelius smiled, "anyone you'd like to say hello to back home?"

Viktoria smirked. "If you're trying to get me to start crying about my brothers, you're out of luck, Cornelius." But she waved to the cameras, anyway. "Take care of Mom and Dad, Anatoli. I'll be back soon."

Cornelius nodded. "You're sure about that. That's good. What makes you so confident you'll be coming home?"

Viktoria shrugged. "Why not? I've got as good a chance as anyone else, don't I? I got a seven in training. I know what I'm doing. Why not me?"

Levi brushed the tears from his eyes. Why not her? Well, then, why not Saoirse? There was no reason to count her out yet – not really. She seemed just as strong as the other girl, and they were both older than the boy. If it was going to be someone from District Seven – and, of course, there was no guarantee that it would be, but why not? – then why not her? Why not his sister?

Soon, Viktoria's time was up, and the boy took the stage, wearing a light green button-down shirt and brown pants. He didn't even make an attempt at smiling; his expression was already serious, almost fierce. "So, Jason," Cornelius grinned. "You seem prepared for tomorrow."

"As prepared as I can be," Jason agreed. "As prepared as I'll ever be, considering I don't really have a choice in the matter. But there is something I can choose – I can choose whether to go in fighting, or to kicking and screaming. And I'm going in fighting."

Cornelius nodded. "That's what we like to see – taking a situation you didn't choose and making it your own! And a seven in training. Pretty impressive for not having any prior experience. You must have picked up a lot. Can you give us any insight into what you've learned?"

Jason thought for a moment before answering, and his answer chilled Levi to the bone. "I learned what I'm capable of." He glanced over towards the Gamemakers' box. "Thank you for showing me, Mr. Florum. I'll put it to good use."

The camera panned to the Gamemakers in time to show Helius giving him a playful salute. Levi glanced at his brothers. What did he mean? Surely the Gamemakers hadn't done anything already. Surely they weren't already taking sides.

No. No, Jason was probably just trying to make it look like they had. It was no secret that the Gamemakers sometimes took sides between tributes, but it was almost always against a rebel or a troublemaker or someone who was truly, irreparably insane – someone who couldn't be allowed to win. Saoirse was none of those things. She was safe. As safe as she could be.

Levi gripped Trevor's hand. She still had a chance. Sure, she had cried during the interviews, but he would have done the same thing. Any of them would. He was almost surprised more people didn't cry. Or shout. Or complain. They were all playing along. In a way, Saoirse's willingness to cry in front of the audience wasn't a show of weakness, but of strength. The strength it took to reveal one's emotions to complete strangers. He wasn't sure he had that strength.

But he wasn't among strangers. He was with his family. And here, they all had the courage to cry. Because that was what held them together. That was what made them strong. And they would stay that way.

They would stay strong for Saoirse.

* * *

><p><strong>Davy Garner, 12<br>****Friend of Janardan Fletcher**

He had to be strong.

Davy brushed the tears from his eyes. They were all gone. Emmett, Victoria, Chaser, Carlton – all gone. All taken by the Peacekeepers. Not dead yet – not as far as he knew – but it wouldn't take long. They knew. They had to.

The Peacekeepers had found them after the goodbyes. He had run. He had escaped.

But he couldn't run forever.

He had taken refuge in District Eight's community home. Fletcher had always said the best place to hide was right under everyone's noses. So far, his advice had proven sound; no one had noticed the little boy in the corner. Not the orphans, not the workers, and certainly not the Peacekeepers.

He was safe for now.

So, as much as he hated it, Davy forced himself to watch the screen. Just like everyone else. He had to blend in. Had to go unnoticed.

But for how long?

The girl from Eight took the stage first, wearing a slim black dress with a white stripe across the middle, silver earrings, and silver sandals. Her long, flowing hair hung loose in the front and was poofed up in the back. She was smiling a little, her head held high, looking almost bored.

Cornelius, however, looked anything but bored. He leaned forward a little in his chair, eager, anticipating. "So, Shilo, I hear you have some information for the audience. A little … secret about one of your district partners."

Davy froze. A secret. He couldn't possibly be referring to anyone but Fletcher. But how would she know? Had he told her? Had she put it together on her own?

Shilo shrugged. "I don't think it's much of a _secret _if he tells another tribute in the middle of training and I just _happen _to overhear. And, mind you, I'm not saying it's _true _– only that _he _claims it is."

Cornelius grinned. "Of course, of course. Tell us."

_Don't tell them_, Davy pleaded silently. _Please. Just don't say it. If they know, Fletcher's as good as dead._

Shilo rolled her eyes. "One of my district partners _claims _he's the Robber Prince."

The audience murmured. So did the orphans. Davy said nothing. Cornelius raised an eyebrow. "_Claims_, you say. I take it you don't believe him."

Shilo shrugged. "Doesn't really matter whether or not I believe him. If he's going to pretend to be an outlaw who steals from Capitol citizens … well, he deserves to face the consequences."

Davy clenched his fists tightly. How could she say that? Everything they'd done – everything Fletcher and the Brotherhood had accomplished – had been for them. For people like her. Ordinary citizens who didn't have the means to stand up to the Capitol themselves. It was all for them.

And she had betrayed him.

Soon, the girl's time was up, and the younger boy took the stage, wearing a tie-dyed three piece suit, a rainbow-colored tie, and a shaky smile. Cornelius didn't waste any time. "So, Enzo, what do you make of the claim that a tribute from District Eight could be the famous Robber Prince?"

Enzo hesitated a moment, fiddling with his tie. Then he looked straight at the cameras and gave them his best smile. "All right, you caught me."

_What?_

Cornelius wasn't fazed for an instant. "Are you saying that _you_ are the Robber Prince?"

Enzo nodded. "Thought it was Fletcher, didn't you. Completely overlooked the little twelve-year-old. Well, I'm not about to let someone else take the credit." He smiled smugly, and, for a moment, almost looked like Fletcher. "I'm the one you're after. That's right – all those cons, all those robberies, masterminded by a _twelve-year-old_. All the best Capitol investigators, all those Peacekeepers, outwitted by a _twelve-year-old._ What do you have to say to that?"

"And your family?"

"As clueless as the rest of you. They had no idea what I was really up to." Enzo was still smiling, but Davy could see his face growing paler. He hadn't even thought about the possible repercussions for his family. Davy swallowed hard, hoping this little charade didn't cost the boy's family their lives.

Davy watched as the audience ate it up – the tales of this little Prince's exploits, exaggerated from the stories the Brotherhood had spread themselves. Davy smiled a little. Enzo wasn't the Robber Prince, of course, but, for this moment, he was just as brave.

Soon, his time was over, and Fletcher took his place, wearing a dark gold suit and bright gold tie. As the two passed each other, Fletcher smiled a little and clapped Enzo on the back. Cornelius didn't miss it. "So, Fletcher," he grinned, "what do you make of your district partner's confession?"

_Don't say it_. Davy watched the screen intently. _Don't. Just this once, Fletcher, just this _once_, keep your mouth closed._

But, of course, he didn't. "I think it was one of the bravest things I've ever seen," he admitted. "I think it was a noble gesture. And I'm sorry, Enzo, but I can't let you take the credit – or the blame – for what I've done." He turned towards the cameras. "_I _am the Robber Prince."

Cornelius grinned. "Intriguing, indeed. What do you think would prompt Enzo to claim your identity?"

Fletcher smiled a little. "I would hope it's because he believes – as do many others, I'm sure – that I'm someone worth imitating. That I've set an example that's worth following. I would imagine there are many others like him in the districts – others who have, at one point or another, imagined that _they_ were the Robber Prince. That, using nothing but their wits and their words, they could outwit anyone from an upper-class citizen to the Capitol itself. Who _wouldn't _want to do that? Who wouldn't want to _be_ that?"

"Be that as it may, I don't imagine there are many people who envy your position at the moment."

Fletcher shrugged. "Probably not. It's true: You've got me. And I imagine I won't make it out of that arena alive." He grinned. "But I'm not going down without a fight."

Davy looked away, trying to hide his tears. But, just as Fletcher's interview was finished, there was a pounding on the door. Peacekeepers stormed in. Davy leapt up, but it was too late. Two of them grabbed him. Dragged him out the door and into the rain.

Davy clenched his fists. They had him. They had the others. They had Fletcher. And they thought that meant they had won. But they hadn't won. Not yet. He would fight. He would be strong.

He would be strong for Fletcher.

* * *

><p>"<em>The Universe speaks with many languages, but only one voice. It speaks in the language of hope. It speaks in the language of trust. It speaks in the language of strength and the language of compassion."<em>


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